


Dinner Can Start a War

by moriartysapprentice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asha and I are worse than Steven and Mark, But really we're sorry, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forgive us, Implied Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Not really we're going to hell anyway, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriartysapprentice/pseuds/moriartysapprentice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possible AU where Reichenbach doesn't happen (you're welcome) and Irene and Sherlock decide they may as well admit how they feel towards each other.</p><p>Sebastian Moran, under Moriarty's orders, has blown 221b up and drugged Sherlock, causing him to end up in a brief coma-like state. When he awakes, he recalls having spent the previous evening with Irene Adler, and confessing the truth about how he feels to her. She is by his bedside, tearful and worried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Irene could see his body wilting into the bed, smiling slightly as he kissed her. He was surprisingly affectionate, this strange, fascinating man. And she liked it.  
"Rest, my love..." She murmured softly, smoothing her hand over his forehead. "I'll ask John to bring me some food. Just relax..." He hated himself for allowing it, but the blackness washed over him like a sea, and he was asleep. He dreamed more often than normal, silly things like having children and marriage and an odd one about broccoli.   
Watching him drift off, Irene sent a quick text to John, asking him to pick up a sandwich from the hospital cafe for her. She didn't move from her spot, curled up on the bed by his side, watching his face. His eyelids fluttered occasionally, and she wondered what he was dreaming about. Would he dream about her?

Some time later he jolted awake. "Irene?" He looked toward her and smiled to see her sitting exactly where she had been when he fell asleep. "I wasn't asleep for too long, was I? And you got something to eat, yes?"  
"A few hours...and yes, sweetheart, I did eat," Irene replied, her head resting on her hand, looking down at him with a gentle smile. "How do you feel? There's some food here for you, you need to regain your strength." She leaned down to place a soft kiss on his lips, just for a moment.  
"Good. I don't need to eat, I'll eat before we leave tomorrow." He sighed. He was really going to miss London, but the necessary precautions had to be made. "I had a dream about you. Well, more than one. They were nice." Immediately he felt stupid for saying this and mentally cursed himself for behaving so immaturely. I must seem like a complete idiot to Irene, he thought.

Irene's smile widened, a childish satisfaction creeping into her voice. So he was thinking about her... "About me? How sweet...Will you tell me about them, my love?" She asked quietly, lying down on the bed, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

The storyteller. That's what they'd known him as in primary school. He told Irene about his dreams, about the wedding, the beautiful wedding he'd pictured, and children, their children possibly, probably since they had Irene's eyes but his cheekbones (Sherlock laughed while telling her this). He left out the broccoli one, obviously, he didn't want her to think he was completely insane. He picked up his phone and checked the time. Just a few more hours, and then the nightstaff would be in, and they'd be able to creep out and begin their journey. He couldn't wait. Just him and Irene, living in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, no visitors, no clients, no hired assassins.

Irene listened as he wove beautiful stories about them both. About her in a long white dress, about children with her eyes and his features, about their lives together. Never had anyone considered a life with her before. The dreams he told warmed her heart, her eyes clouding with tears of unexplainable emotion.  
He really did want her. All of her.  
She wiped her eyes gently before leaning up to press her lips to his in a slow, tender kiss. He was more romantic than she had given him credit for.  
Pulling back, she murmured softly. "John is planning to go and stay with his sister...that just leaves us, my dear..."

Sherlock laughed quietly. "John is my best friend, but he was never going to stay with us. He'll be fine with Harry, I suppose. I'll be fine with you," he took one of her hands and touched it to his lips, "always."   
The phone rang and he groaned. He picked it up and answered; it was Lestrade so he just hung up while the DI was mid-sentence.

She smiled, her eyes downcast as he kissed her hand gently. "More than fine, I hope...being on the run sounds much more bearable when it involves time with you, my dear" She murmured. She wasn't used to feeling shy or playing coy, but he was so...gentle with her. Acting like a romantic. It was so alien to her, being treated as more than a service. She felt strangely...fluttery.  
"Why did you hang up?" She chuckled. He struggled to find the correct words for a moment, and then said, "Because as of now, Lestrade will have to find a new consulting detective." He put his index fingers together and brought them to his mouth, looking towards the door, deep in thought. Obviously he wasn't going to work on cases, he could keep a low profile as long as they got a violin and maybe a cat and some chil- no. Stop running away with your imagination, Sherlock, he scolded himself.

She laughed softly, pecking his cheek just as John walked in, followed by a doctor. "Oh, you're up, good" He nodded towards Sherlock. "Just need to check your blood pressure, reflex responses, that sort of thing. Measure your progress" John sat down on a chair by the bed, and, after a disapproving look from the doctor, Irene slid off the bed to sit at a nearby chair as well.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor. "Honestly, I'm fine, clearly. But do what you must," he finished, examining the IV drip attached to his arm. He hated being in hospitals, they were full of bad memories from childhood and despair. But he would hide that for now, he was strong and he'd hidden all of that for so long, keeping it hidden wouldn't be too hard. As the doctor took a few blood samples from him, he composed soft melodies in his head. The doctor, a middle-aged man with two daughters, an estranged wife, a girlfriend and a mistress, finished whatever the hell he was doing to Sherlock's good arm and Sherlock watched the needle coming back out without a single flinch. 

Irene watched his face with a slight expression of concern. He was doing it again. Disappearing into his mind the way he did whenever something happened that he didn't want to see or feel. She kept a hold on his other hand, remaining silent until the doctor had finished with his procedures. The white-coated man spoke calmly to Sherlock.  
"Right, we'll get the results of this checked out, but you seem to be recovering well. Shouldn't be here more than a few days." With a polite smile and a nod, he left the room, leaving the three of them alone once more.  
"There was this..." John said. "I went back earlier to look, this was all I could really find. Apparently it was stashed beneath your bed and was shielded from most of it."  
He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a mobile phone. Irene's eyebrows shot up.  
She recognised that phone.  
It was hers.  
The same phone that had been taken from her that night in Mycroft Holmes' office. The same phone that bore Sherlock's name as a password.  
Her eyes flashed to him.  
He kept it?  
Surely the only thing on it at the moment would be...her texts.

He put his hand out for the phone, which John handed to him. "Funny, it probably should have blown up too, with the amount of explosive particles in the air. But no matter, it survived anyway." He examined it and then passed it to Irene, who looked slightly shocked. Probably that he'd kept it. "Of course," was all he said. Sherlock checked the time on his phone again. Two hours until nightstaff came on. "John, you can leave if you'd like. I won't be too offended." Irene took the phone tentatively, turning it over in her hands. A little damaged, but it still seemed mostly intact.  
He had kept it, all this time.  
Her eyes returned to his face, speechless. Why had he kept this?  
The texts? The dinner invitations?  
She was stunned.  
John replied quietly. "I might head to Harry's before it gets too dark..." He placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock. I'm just a phonecall away if you need me."  
"The same to you, John," he called after him. He was going to miss John, it would be strange. Only this morning they were living together and now Sherlock probably wasn't going to see him for the rest of the year. But, he supposed, that was the beauty of being safe. He turned back to Irene and stroked her cheek while she examined her phone. The phone that was her heart, that enticed him to her. All of this, because of a mobile phone. Comical, almost.   
He remembered each individual text and of course the sound that accompanied them. He wondered briefly if he would make her make that sound, and then shook the thought away before a telltale blush crept across his face. Such an innocent virgin at times, Sherlock was. It couldn't be helped.

"You...kept this? Since the day we met?" She asked, her eyes still on the blank screen of the phone that once controlled her entire life. She held the green button down and slowly, the contraption flickered to life. The familiar keys and icons. The empty files that once stored her life's work.  
She opened the 'Messages' folder.  
There they all were.  
'I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner'  
'I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner'  
'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner'  
'Goodbye, Mr. Holmes'  
She looked up at him, her fingers curled tight around the phone.   
She experimentally scrolled through 'Message Alerts', finding the ringtone she had set for him, playing it with a slight grin. The breathy moan that had been recorded especially for this man. She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled in that baritone voice of his. "John was sick of hearing that. He counted each message. I think the grand total came to 216," he said, "But I think perhaps you were aiming for 221. I noticed." He uncurled her fingers from the phone and set it aside. "We have roughly an hour and a half and then we're leaving. What are we going to do? I don't mean getting there, I mean how are we going to live?" For once, Sherlock actually didn't have a plan.

Irene laughed. She had indeed been aiming to send him 221 texts, but she was somewhat surprised he still remembered.  
"I have savings under a false name. A considerable amount I kept aside for times like this," she replied. "That should be enough to sustain us whilst we figure out exactly how to deal with Jim and Moran. We can't simply spend our whole lives hiding. They will find us. But for now, we need to get a safe distance from here and then we can work on a plan."  
She glanced at her watch. Twenty five minutes to go.  
She had a car waiting downstairs, she had hired it using a false ID whilst Sherlock was asleep. It should get them to where they needed to go.


	2. Chapter 2

"We're leaving earlier, then," he said, not really as a question but a statement. Not that it mattered. "You know, when I was younger, apart from being a pirate, I wanted to live in a little cottage in the middle of nowhere with a pretty girl. Perhaps I'll become a pirate too." Another doctor entered the room. "I've already had my OBS for this hour, thank you," Sherlock said curtly, but the doctor shook his head.

Irene smiled softly, opening her mouth to reply when the doctor entered. "I'm afraid I'm here for a different matter, sir. Your cousin is downstairs, he is requesting an early discharge for you. We need you to sign these forms" He held the clipboard out towards them.  
"His cousin?" Irene asked, raising a curious eyebrow. The doctor nodded. "A Mr. Richard Brooks?" Realisation dawned on Irene's features. Jim. He was here. Sherlock needed to think, but he didn't have enough time. "What if I don't sign the forms? You can't discharge me if I don't feel I'm safe to leave," he said. The doctor laughed gently. "Mr Holmes, if we feel you're safe to leave, then you have to go. The forms are simply saying that if something happens to you after you leave this hospital, it is your own problem and we are not at fault." ..Right. He should have known that, but it was worth a try. He quickly signed the forms and went to get up before realising he was naked. He cleared his throat. "My clothes, where would they be?" he asked the doctor, who smiled and pointed to the cupboard in the corner.

Irene passed him his clothes quickly, speaking hurriedly as he dressed.  
"There's a service elevator at the end of the corridor, and an emergency exit leading to the carpark. We can get out from there, but we need to be fast. He'll have men waiting for us around the hospital." He pulled on his jacket. "What's the point running from him? If he's here now, he'll follow us wherever we go. May as well confront him now." The adrenaline was pumping and he grinned mischievously. Irene gaped at him, standing, taking his hand. "Sherlock...it isn't safe..." She bit her lip, trying to keep her voice calm and steady as he pulled on his coat. "He'll kill us both. Don't make me watch you die, darling."  
"Come on, Irene, sweetheart, the first time we met we took out three CIA trained agents. I think we can take a few of Moriarty's lackeys, they're nowhere near as intelligent and Jim is far too intelligent to try and fight me." He took her hand and kissed it before opening the door and waiting to see if she was ready.

Irene was suspicious. Very suspicious. "Sherlock.. Jim wouldn't risk a fight like that in a public place. Not with him present. He never wants to be implicated" She said slowly. "I...I don't think he's here to fight. I'm not sure what his game is now." She clasped his hand in hers. "But whatever it is, I'm ready."  
Sherlock and Irene walked out into the corridor. It was empty, apart from a man standing at the end. They walked past him and to the elevator she had mentioned earlier. There was a sign pasted to the front of it reading 'Out Of Order' and Sherlock tore it off, laughing, pressed the button and got into the lift. "He thinks I miss the obvious," he muttered, allowing Irene to choose the floor since she knew where the fire exit was.

Irene pressed the button leading them to the basement, feeling the lift descend with a growing nervousness. They exited the lift and made their way into the car park, still hand in hand, glancing around nervously, when she spotted him. Dressed in a simple, smart suit, utterly alone, watching them from a distance. Jim Moriarty.  
Sherlock had spotted him right away and squeezed Irene's hand. "Well," he slowly walked towards Moriarty, "here for your weekly session, Jim? How is the psychiatrist you're sleeping with?" Sherlock dropped Irene's hand and slowly circled the other man, looking him up and down as he went. "And it's not even a girl. I didn't know you swung that way, Jim," he chuckled. As he looked to Irene's face he could see she was confused. No one really understood why Jim and Sherlock acted how they did. It was because they were the same, deep down, though Sherlock refused to admit this.

Jim responded only with a low chuckle,replying in a smooth, lilting Dublin accent. "Oh honey, you're getting slow. I shot the psychiatrist two days ago. Awfully boring, those clinical types." He began to circle also, matching Sherlock's movements. "And speaking of recent lovers, I have to say, this new development between yourself and /darling/ Ms. Adler is rather interesting." He briefly tilted his head to speak over his shoulder to Irene. "Lovely to see you again, dear. I should have known you'd run back to him eventually"  
Irene replied silkily. She always had been good under pressure. "It was worth leaving you for, sweetheart"  
Jim didn't flinch at the comment, his eyes never leaving Sherlock.  
"It appears we're playing Cat and Mouse again, my dear Mr. Holmes. I'm almost inclined to let you have a head start. Let you find your little hideaway, just for the fun of tracking you down again."

"You shot him? Always the element of surprise, that's the problem with you," Sherlock said, and then his voice dropped to a whisper: "You don't have one." Before Jim could respond, he had his gun pointed at Moriarty's head with a coy smile on his face.   
"I never knew you were romantically involved with Irene, Jim. I thought she was a bit too unpredictable for you, but there you go."  
Moriarty clicked his fingers, and a thousand snipers' lasers appeared over Sherlock's body. He raised an eyebrow. "I know what you want, Jim, and it's not going to happen. Walk away and I won't shoot you, or stay here and I'll take you out with me."

 

"Mm, I wouldn't say it was particularly romantic. She was an employee, I thought it might be best to take advantage of /all/ her talents." Jim smirked at Irene, her eyes narrowing, her hands curling into fists. She didn't like being reminded of her time with him. Sure, there were benefits, protection, good pay. But he took advantage of her, and she despised him for it. She didn't reply. Jim continued.  
"Now now, doesn't this seem familiar? I think we've been in a situation like this before. Except this time, if you take me down with you, your precious Irene will fall too." Irene stepped forward at that, in the path of several of the lasers, taking Sherlock's hand.  
"Is that worth you dying, sweetheart? Is it worth that /failure/?" She asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Jim only grinned in return.  
"Ooh, you have trained her well. It seems we have reached an impasse, my dears. I'll tell you what. I'll give you three days to hide, and then the Big Bad Wolf will start looking for you again."   
He stepped forward, looking directly at Sherlock.  
"Look into my eyes, Sherlock. You know when I'm lying, and I'm sure you know this isn't the end. But today is the wrong day to die for us both" He glanced at Irene. "I mean, for /all/ of us.”

Moriarty began to walk away and Sherlock called after him. "Fine, run away like you always do instead of facing me, and you will never find us." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Irene, the snipers are still on us and will be for some time, so don't make any hasty movements." He squeezed her hand and they watched Jim walk away like the coward Sherlock knew. Except he wasn't a complete coward, and he turned back to them. "I will find you, you know. And I'm keeping my promise. I'll burn the heart out of you yet, Mr Holmes the younger," and with a wink to Irene, he was gone. The red dots covering both of them disappeared the second Jim did. 'What now?' he thought to himself. 'Run', Irene's eyes said. So they did.

 

They dashed straight to the car, Irene behind the wheel, sliding out of the car park effortlessly. It was a simple black sedan, easy to lose in a crowd, and she headed for the nearest motorway she could. There would be fewer places for snipers to hide, and, as far as she could see, they weren't being followed. Still, she would make several circuits before heading west towards Wales, and their safehouse.  
"A few days" She whispered. "A few days before they start the search again. The house is well hidden, and built on unmarked land away from towns, it will take a while to find, even for him."  
Her words were rushed, her hands shaking slightly. Despite her calmness, her steady voice, Irene was scared. She had never faced someone as dangerous as Jim before, not like this. Not as a victim. As prey.  
Sherlock's head still hurt from the explosion, but he ignored it, resting his hand on Irene's when they got to a traffic light. They were in the middle of some dreary Welsh town with a post-Victorian church to their left. Forty-two more miles and they'd be there. He briefly wondered if John was okay, and took out his phone to check for messages. As usual, nothing, except one from his brother that he skimmed through and didn't reply to. If he ended up needing Mycroft, which was likely, he made a mental note to give Irene his number.   
Sherlock hated waiting. Waiting often lead to disappointment, he remembered from his childhood and teenage years. Irene would want to know about that, probably. Who made Sherlock Holmes and why did they make him the way they did. Most people wanted to know, and he sighed to himself before realising he was in company and that he shouldn't drift off to think at a time like this. This was relaxing-Sherlock-and-Irene time, not time to depress himself.

Irene linked her fingers to Sherlock's, his touch calming her slightly. They drove in silence for a while, before she first spoke, squeezing his hand gently.  
"How are you feeling, darling? It hasn't been that long since we left the hospital, you must be tired," she murmured.  
She was worried by his silence, by his expressionless features. He was disappearing into his mind again, and that could only mean something was bothering him.  
"Tell me what's worrying you, Sherlock..."

"I slept for three days, my love, I don't think I'll need to sleep for a while," he laughed and rubbed his thumb along her hand. The family questions would come soon and he dreaded it, so he thought it best just to pretend he was fine. He was used to that by now. His eyes dropped and became unfocused. "Just thinking about covering our tracks," he murmured and let go of her hand so she could drive again. The sooner they got there, the better, because Sherlock was almost sure he had a violin in the cottage. He remembered what had happened the first and last time he'd ever been here, which coincidentally were the same thing, and smirked. 

Irene glanced at him, raising her eyebrow at his sudden smirk. "What are you thinking about that makes you so happy, darling?" She said with a slight smile, driving quickly down the dark road. She stowed her questions in the back of her mind for now, about his past, his family, his brother. As curious as she was, she wouldn't ask until he was ready to speak.


	3. Chapter 3

"You. The last time we were here, and how beautifully intoxicated we both were," his smirk faded, "I find it funny that I can't remember most of that night." There was a question on Irene's lips, so he just looked at her until she asked it.   
If they were ever to have children, they'd have the most prominent cheekbones and her beautiful eyes, he decided. They probably would look far too much like Sherlock to be as beautiful as their mother, obviously. Then he remembered all the people who had thought this way about Irene Adler before him, and silently hated himself. 

Irene chuckled, eyeing him slyly. "Mm, that was an interesting night. I remember waking with you, but funnily enough, I don't recall most of the night either. Quite a shame, really." One of her hands left the wheel, her fingers drawing lazy patterns on his thigh. "I suppose this time we can repeat the experience, my love..."  
She hesitated, biting her lip once before speaking in a soft tone.  
"We're...going to be together a lot from now on. And you know quite a bit about me, my dear. Yet...I don't know about you." She looked at him quickly before her eyes return to the road.  
"Tell me about you? Your past?"

What to tell her, he didn't even know. He'd only ever spoken to one person about his childhood, and that was Mrs Hudson. Only because she overheard him talking to himself, naturally, and then came in with plenty of questions. "I was born in Bedfordshire. My mother, Violet, contracted an infection in her lungs and died when I was five. My father, Sigur, was a businessman and Mycroft and I only saw him for a few hours at Christmas and on Mycroft's birthday. You see, I was blamed for my mother's death since she got sick after I was born. I didn't exist to my father, or to many of the people that worked in our house." He paused to check her expression before continuing. "When our tutor came to the house to teach us Latin or Maths, he only answered Mycroft's questions and ignored me. That was just normal life. My brother soon took to raising me, teaching me morals and also teaching me that I was the reason our mother died. I believed this until I was eleven, when I was sent to public school and I distanced myself from my brother. Not that I had anyone else to talk to, of course. Just the skull that was in 221b- I found him in the woods when I was fourteen." There was a lot more he could tell her, but he decided he'd better let her ask a few questions first and allow a moment for her to take that information in. He looked out the window and watched fields go by.  
Irene's heart sank as she listened to him. Ignored by every meaningful person in his life...blamed for his own mother's death...no wonder he preferred to distance himself from society.  
She took his hand once more, kissing it gently, speaking quietly.  
"Did you ever reconcile with him? Mycroft?" She murmured. "Or your father?"

He watched her and knew he'd made the right choice in telling the truth. "I thought about talking to my father about five years ago, but he died shortly after. As you know, Mycroft has tried to make it up to me by constantly keeping watch, but I will never fully forgive him," Sherlock said and then continued under his breath, "Not that it was his fault our mother died."He gave Irene an encouraging smile. She was definitely hiding more questions, and he supposed he was in the mood to answer them.

"Did you ever forgive yourself...?" She whispered softly. "You were a child, sweetheart. You shouldn't be blamed" They stopped at another traffic light, and Irene took the opportunity to turn to him, placing a hand on his cheek. "My poor darling, you must have been so lonely..." Her thumb skimmed across his cheekbone gently before the light changed, and she had to return her gaze to the road. "What about school? And after? Did you find anyone? Besides the skull, I mean...Friends?...Girlfriends?" She asked hesitantly. Had he felt this way about other women. She couldn't help herself. She had to know.  
"Occasionally I forgive myself. Most of the time I forget I had parents. School was okay, I suppose. They thought I was mute and stupid so the teachers ignored me. I was teased quite a lot too, but I don't think I ever really cared. It was mostly because when I did talk..." Sherlock smirked at how certain things never change, "I had a habit of saying things about people that others were too scared to. I became actually mute when I was thirteen and it lasted until I was eighteen. At nineteen I decided to be a detective. I had no one until I met John. Everyone before that was a necessary socialization. You might wonder why I don't count Mrs Hudson as my first friend. It's because she was the only one of the staff that spoke to me in my father's house, so she's more like a mother." He realised how depressingly tragic his life sounded now that it was all out in the air. Some things can't be helped, he thought.  
Mute for five years...She couldn't imagine it. She couldn't bear to think that her Sherlock, her brilliant detective, felt he had to hide his intellect from the world for so long. She was instantly more grateful to that landlady of his. He had a mother figure, at least. She turned into a narrow country lane, more of a dirt path than a road, leading through some dense forests. "I'm glad you found John. And you had Mrs. Hudson. The rest were jealous of you, my love. You're a remarkable man, you don't deserve to feel inadequate to those imbeciles," she murmured.

Sherlock leaned over and gently kissed her cheek. He couldn't believe she'd been so understanding, so patient. It made him fall in love with her so much more. "I've always felt inadequate and it won't change, but thank you anyway." He began thinking again, recording each tiny detail as he did each day. It made him feel safe, because he could trust his mind if he couldn't trust anything else; but he knew now Irene was to be trusted too. He daydreamed about different futures they could have together. He always did that, except normally it was just his own future and the outcome always looked bleak. Now, his imaginings were almost beautiful, and he would never be able to thank Irene enough for that.


	4. Chapter 4

Irene smiled as she felt his lips on her cheek, but said nothing more, driving with one hand so that she could keep a gentle grip on his with her other. He would need time to process today. That was one thing she knew about him. He required time to store the information he had gathered following an important event, and she would give him that. The drove in silence for an hour more, before the trees finally parted, giving view to a small, well-hidden cottage.

Sherlock waited for Irene to park the car behind the cottage and then got out, took the key for the back door out of his pocket and handed it to Irene. "After you, Miss Adler," he grinned. The cottage looked rather worn down on the outside, but Sherlock had made sure it was up to his standards on the inside. The decor, if he remembered correctly, was modern in some places and old fashioned in others, but it suited the three-bedroomed home. 

Irene smirked, leaning up to peck his cheek before walking over the damp grass to the door, unlocking it smoothly and allowing it to swing open. "Coming, Mr Holmes?" She purred, turning, leaning against the doorframe and grinning mischeviously at him. For now, she could forget about the danger that followed them. For a few days at least, they would be alone.  
He put his hands in his pockets and sauntered in after her and the beauty of the place hit him, but he didn't show it. This is where he'd came after he left school and Sherlock had loved living alone, really loved it, but as soon as he moved to London the loneliness sunk in. Memories of days spent researching famous cases from the past made him smile and put a spring in his step as he followed Irene through the kitchen. They got to a long hallway and Sherlock opened the first door on his left; his old bedroom. He had slept in here after rescuing Irene, and she'd slept across the hall.   
As childishly as he could, Sherlock ran and jumped on the bed, landing in the middle and rolling onto his back. The ceiling was painted to mimic the sky because it used to help him think, or soothed him enough so he slept, which was always rare.

Irene followed him as he wandered thoughtfully through the house, giggling as he leapt onto his bed like a five-year-old being given their own room for the first time. She leant against the frame of the bedroom door, watching him with a smile. This was the most free she had ever seen him. This place...it was a safe house in more ways than one for him. It was an escape, a sanctuary. It was beautiful, of course, with it's modern furniture perfectly complimenting it's traditional, rustic style. But the first time she was here, she never paid much thought to what this house meant to Sherlock. Abruptly, she was touched that he had allowed her to come here. She guessed that he didn't allow many visitors normally. Vaguely, she wondered if he would ask her to sleep in the other room again, or if he'd allow her to stay with him. And if he did invite her to stay, what could happen...She quickly halted her thoughts there. Best not to get ahead of herself. As much as she did, he may not want that to happen tonight. She continued to watch him silently, not disturbing him.  
He checked his phone. Mycroft had texted again, and he sent back a brief reply before looking back to Irene. God, she was so beautiful and he'd been blind to miss it before. So beautiful and seductive. Sherlock patted the empty space being him, inviting her to lie beside him. "Will you stay with me? Tonight, I mean?" He asked. She probably wouldn't want to, if she was like him she'd want space to think. Sherlock had had his space for today in the car. Any more thinking and he'd end up with one of those awful migraines he frequented. 

She sauntered forwards, taking a seat beside him, leaning close to kiss his cheek gently. "I'd love to stay with you tonight" She murmured. She would take a break beforehand. Make herself some tea. Process the events of the past few days. Then, perhaps, she would be ready to devote her thoughts solely to Sherlock. "Are you sure you don't mind my staying here? In your room?"  
He played with an errant curl on the side of her face. When she'd stayed in the flat, he'd decided she was prettier with her hair down, but she preferred it up because it suited her job. "Of course I don't mind, sweetheart." He sat up and remembered something. "I'll go check if the water is switched on," he said, and with that he walked out of his -their?- bedroom and opened a small door leading into a cellar, where the mains box was. Everything was switched on, and in the cellar he found the first violin he'd owned, which was nice. Sherlock headed back up and into the living room while Irene made tea and for the next hour or so he tuned and played his first friend.

Irene busied herself making two cups of tea. She didn't have to ask to know what Sherlock liked. Black, no milk, a small amount of sugar. That, along with her own white tea was made quickly, and she left the kitchen with both mugs, setting Sherlock's down beside him as he tuned his violin. She thought it might be as good a time as any to think through the past events of the previous four days, soothed by the gentle melodies he played. She liked this, this companionable silence that floated between them. It felt natural.  
She sat at one of the plush armchairs by a bookshelf in the living room, sipping her tea and watching him expertly manipulate the instrument as she sifted through her blurring memories, picking out anything important and saving it in her subconscious.  
She had only intended on dinner with him. Well, perhaps a little more than dinner. But she never could have forseen this. Going back on the run with Sherlock, admitting her love to Sherlock, living with Sherlock. Becoming his...what? His girlfriend? She mentally scoffed at the term. Partner? Sounded rather formal. Lover? Made them seem rather illicit and scandalous. Whatever they were, it had happened far too quickly. And she was surprised at just how little she minded that.

He sipped at his tea and crouched on his feet, occasionally catching Irene looking at him and his violin in the corner of his eye. Not that he minded. What intrigued him though, was how she looked. He was used to others staring or occasionally sending death glares, but Irene was different. It reminded him of what few memories he had of his mother, and that scared him. That someone so close could be so like his mother and that he would be responsible if anything happened to them. This discovery shook him, mentally and physically. He suddenly felt the need to be close to Irene, to make sure she was safe, so he set his violin aside and walked over to where she was sitting and kneeling to kiss her, gradually pulling her onto her feet and gripping the back of her dress.

Irene, having long since finished her tea and set the mug aside, was surprised by his abrupt movement, his sudden kiss. They hadn't had many moments of passion or romance since the start of their newfound relationship, and his actions sparked something within her. Her thoughts vanished the moment his lips touched hers, and the desire that she had felt for him since the day they met flickered to life, fuelling an automatic response. Her eyes fluttered shut, standing as he pulled her up. Her hands slid up his chest, her arms encircling his neck, kissing him slowly and deeply, her lips moving in perfect synchronization with his. Sherlock pressed his forehead to hers, and kissed her lightly. "I'm so sorry you've been dragged into this with me, Irene," he whispered against her lips, and that was the truth. He almost wished she was on the other side, because she wouldn't have to do all this hiding, but he was still glad she'd stuck with him this far, even if it wasn't actually far at all. He kept his eyes on her closed ones, before kissing her again. He was sure she had plans for this evening now, plans that he wasn't sure he'd be so confident about- but he'd trust her.  
Irene opened her mouth to reply, but found her lips captured in another deep kiss, reciprocating eagerly. It wasn't until minutes later, when they broke apart, that she finally spoke, her words slightly breathless and dazed by his kiss.  
"It was..." She whispered, before clearing her throat once, his sudden display of affection having left her slightly speechless. "It was me that drew Jim to you, darling...if anything, I should be apologising...I dragged you into this mess..."  
She opened her eyes, looking up at him, her arms still wrapped around his neck.  
"Whatever the reason, we're here now. And I'd much rather be here with you than with Jim..."

He chuckled, "I believe it was a joint effort, then." He glanced at the window to his left. "It's snowing. I believe that gives us an extra day or so, as long as it stays." Sherlock looked back to Irene and the look she was giving him reminded him so much of his mother his heart ached, and he had to let go of her and go sit down before he broke himself or worse, hurt her. He went back to fiddling with his violin as if nothing had ever happened, but he felt guilty about it and secretly hoped she wouldn't just let him walk off like that. After all, she was the woman who conquered men stronger than him.  
She turned to the window, noticing the small flecks of white fluttering down with a slight smile. Her attention was diverted, however by the sudden disappearance of Sherlock from her grasp.  
With a look of confusion, she followed him, circling around his chair and sliding her hands down his chest from behind. She wrapped her arms around him loosely as she leaned down to kiss his cheek.  
"The more time here, the better, sweetheart"

He thought about her words.Would it be, though? Better?   
"You'll get sick of me." he spoke absentmindedly, plucking strings and watching her hands rise with his breathing. He wanted her, but at the same time he was scared of what that implied and how that attached them further, which wouldn't help when Moriarty got bored of playing cat and mouse and finally killed Sherlock. "Don't be silly, sweetie..." She murmured. "Of course I won't." She pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck. Something felt different...he was worrying again.  
She trailed soft kisses up his throat, reaching his ear, whispering quietly.  
"What's wrong...?"

"You're going to get bored of waiting, or fed up with my moods or my constant mutterings. Everyone does. I won't blame you if I wake up and you're gone. Three days is more than enough time to have enough of someone. Move on to the next, Irene, it's what you do best."

Irene was going to reply, to reassure him that she wouldn't be going anywhere.  
Until she heard his last statement.  
Move on to the next, it's what you do best.  
That stung.  
She stood up straight, her voice sharp and quiet, laced with hurt.  
"Well, if that's what you think of me, Sherlock."  
She turned and left the room, heading to the spare bedroom, away from him, sitting on the bed and staring absently out at the fluttering snow.  
Of all the times she had thought that Sherlock had seen more to her than just...That Woman. The one that switches men more often than she switches clothes. She thought she had found someone who saw past that.  
Clearly she was wrong.

He called after her, but it was no use. He wished he felt at least a bit guilty about that, but he didn't. His mind was made up. Now that they were here and he knew she was safe, he had to get her as alienated to him as he could so she wouldn't be as hurt when he died. He frequently did the same with John. So Sherlock stood and made his way to the kitchen, where he took a rather dusty bottle of scotch from a shelf and just sipped from the bottle, even if it burned his throat. Occasionally, if the flat had been recently cleansed of his drugs and cigarettes, he would just drink himself unconscious, and it worked to an extent. As he drank he thought about the woman down the corridor and how much he wanted to put down the bottle and run to her, but all in good time, as his brother would say.  
Irene lay on her bed for hours. She didn't know how many. The past few days were a strange blur to her now. Sherlock refusing her dinner request. Sherlock kissing her. Sherlock telling her he loved her.  
Sherlock almost dying.  
Telling her stories about a future together.  
Touching her cheek, holding her hand.  
It was strange, almost funny, how one man could make her feel more self-worth than a lifetime of lovers.  
She sighed, turning onto her side. Perhaps that was just a pretense, an infatuation he misinterpreted as love. Perhaps he really did see her the way the rest of the world did. An over-paid, bed-hopping whore. She had heard it enough times.  
It was comical, really. The Woman, led on by Sherlock Holmes. This was the second time she had fallen for it now.  
She sat up and wiped her eyes. How long had she been crying?  
Standing, smoothing down her dress, she opened her door and stormed out, ready to confront him.  
That was, until she saw the bottle in his hand. He raised an eyebrow at her. "You weren't crying, were you?" He tried his damnedest to keep anything caring out of his voice. He held out the bottle to her. "Sharing's caring, I suppose," he slurred ever so slightly and rocked himself, crouching on his feet like he always did.  
Irene gritted her teeth as his cold tone sliced through her resolve.  
What happened to the man she had spoken to on the journey here? The man that had kissed her earlier that night.  
Swearing under her breath, she hurried over to him, snatching the bottle out of his hand before kneeling in front of him.  
"Sherlock. You have just been discharged from hospital following a drug-overdose induced coma. Surely a man of your intellect can see that getting drunk is a /bad/ idea" She snapped, taking the scotch to the kitchen. She had intended on pouring the vile solution down the drain, lest he be tempted again, but, before she did, she took a long drink of it herself, grimacing at the taste.  
She always had preferred champagne.  
Once the scotch had been disposed of, she headed back to the living room, looking down at him, her hands on her hips.   
"Why were you drinking?"

He shrugged and glared at her from underneath his eyelashes. "It numbs everything, which is nice." He then stood up and walked to his room, lay on his bed and left the door open. Sherlock lay on his back and looked up at the sky mosaic. He was such a sociopath, but in this minute he didn't care. He wanted her to come in and crawl into bed beside him. She wouldn't, though, so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, as if that would happen.  
Watching him walk away from her after such a short, curt statement hurt her unexpectedly.  
It reminded her of that day in Mycroft's office.  
The day he had made her beg for her life, and then turned and left her.  
She winced internally.  
Heading down the corridor, she noticed he had left his door open. Leaning against the doorframe, she eyed him with an expression that she intended to be cold, but somehow only seemed to be sad.  
She had been so hopeful. And he had been cruel.  
Still, a silly little part of her wanted to slide into bed with him, and for him to wrap his arms around her and kiss her, as he had in his stories.  
Instead, she only stood. Waiting for him to notice and demand that she leave him alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRACE FOR SEX (sorry at least you've been warned)

He turned and saw her watching him. He put out his arm. "Come here. Please. I need to..talk." Sherlock was broken, and he accepted that now. Irene fixed him temporarily. There wasn't much more than that, and the simplicity of it offended him. He couldn't push her away like he did John. Himself and she, they were equal. Irene hesitantly walked into the room, sitting beside him. She hadn't expected that.  
Her tone was stiff, but not entirely sharp.  
There was a softness there. She still wanted him. She only hoped he still wanted her.  
"You...want to talk?"

He gently pulled her into his arms and explained what he'd tried to do and that he'd realised it wouldn't work. "I can't apologise enough for saying something like that, Irene." He hoped with everything he had that his apology would be accepted as he kissed the nape of her neck. Irene relaxed into his embrace, her eyes closing under his kisses, despite hee resolution to stay strong.  
"That was wrong...doing that..." She murmured, but the anger in her voice was gone. She wasn't going anywhere that night. "You should let me make my own choices, darling..."  
"I know that now," he kissed again, "I'm not used to having someone of the same intellect around. It's odd. Will you stay?"

She leaned into his arms, placing her head on his chest, curling up beside him.  
She didn't want to admit it but, ever since the incident in Karachi, especially in addition to the events of the past few days, she didn't want to be alone at night.  
"Would you like me to stay, sweetie?"   
He took one of her hands and played with her fingers, outlining the differences between his bigger, defined nails and her petite, perfectly manicured ones. "You won't sleep without me here and I won't sleep at all anyway, so there's no harm in it," Sherlock said. "Two more days, sweetheart."

"Perhaps more. The snow is settling" She murmured, her lips curving upwards slightly at the endearment. She liked it when Sherlock used those little names. It was quite a different side to him.  
She laced their fingers together, leaning forward to kiss him gently. "I'll stay..." She whispered as she pulled away. "I'd like to stay."

 

"I suppose I should maybe get changed for bed, then," he murmured and got out of bed, taking off his purple shirt and trousers and leaving them over a chair, climbing back in after taking his socks off and cuddling up to the warm body in his bed.   
Irene's eyes travelled down his body, biting her lip gently as he stripped off his clothes, before sliding back beside her. He was more...defined than she had expected him to be. Interesting. With a mischievous smirk, she spoke smoothly.  
"Well, I suppose if we're getting ready for bed..." She stood from the bed, sliding the straps of her dress from her shoulders, allowing it to pool at her feet, leaving her only in her black, lacy lingerie. Draping the dress over his clothes on the chair, she returned to the bed, her eyes on him.

.He crashed his lips against hers. "I always knew where to look, I just hid it better," he said mid-kiss, and then decided to shut up and kiss this beautiful strange woman who had actually agreed to share his bed. 

Stunned, it took her a moment to respond, but when she did, she was kissing him back as forcefully as she could, chuckling and murmuring against his lips. "Oh, you didn't hide it that well..." Her arms wound around him, her lips devouring his, kissing him roughly.  
He shifted so his arms were either side of her. "Oh really?" he asked playfully, "And how did you know that, Miss Adler?"  
"You knew my safe combination, for starters..." She laughed. "But it was more than that. From the moment I walked in, that day in Belgravia, in my battle dress." She giggled softly at the memory before smirking at him. "I could see you struggling to keep your eyes up."

He raised an eyebrow and dipped down to kiss her again. "The fact that you straddled me naked probably didn't help me much, my love." He didn't really know what to do now, since the last time this happened he was a lot more intoxicated and probably just did what he was told, so he opted for keeping his confidence up and doing as he was told. Couldn't really go wrong, he thought.

She grinned against his lips, kissing him deeply, trapping his lower lip between hers and tugging on it gently before running her tongue along it. Her hands slid up his chest, feeling the smooth, hard muscles that lay beneath his skin.  
"You enjoyed it...don't pretend you didn't want me at the time, my love..." She murmured.

His face became as serious as he could make it. "I would have taken you there and then if John hadn't walked in." He stopped her hands moving any further. "Are you going to make me beg for mercy, Miss Adler?"  
His words were unexpectedly erotic, sending a shiver down her spine, her eyes darkening with desire.  
Desire for him.  
She leaned forward, her lips brushing his as she spoke, her voice barely above a breath.  
"Twice..."  
She leaned forward to kiss him again, her hands trapped by his fingers, pressing her body against his   
He left a light trail of kisses from her neck down to her stomach, where he stopped and looked up at her from under his thick eyelashes mischievously, and then moved up to kiss her again. He wondered if she'd be as dominant as her title suggested, and an image flashed through his head of her pinning him down.

Irene's eyes watched as his lips slid down her stomach, licking her own lips gently, meeting his kiss with fervent enthusiasm.  
She knew Sherlock was a smart man. He knew almost everything about human anatomy. She couldn't help but consider the possibility that he knew where on a woman's body was most...sensitive. She doubted it would happen tonight, tonight she felt in control, but her mind did briefly entertain the image of him pleasuring her, and the idea was deliciously tempting.  
With a dark smile, she slid a hand into his hair. Pulling his head back, she abruptly flipped them, pushing him onto his back and straddling his waist, holding his wrists down on either side of his head.

He let out a small groan of contentedness at her dominance. Sherlock turned to one side and flicked his tongue along the inside of her wrist, then looked back up at her. She was purely erotic from this angle and he almost blushed as he accidentally brushed himself against her upper thigh. 

She hissed quietly as she felt his tongue slide along her wrist. For someone who supposedly didn't do this often, he was remarkably good at turning her on. She felt a brush of something against her thigh, her lips curving into a devilish grin. "My my, someone's excited..." She purred, still pinning him down, looking down at him with glinting eyes, her long, now-loose hair hanging down around them both. Slowly, she rocked her hips against his, grinding against his concealed length with a smirk.

He tilted his head and beckoned her closer. When she moved, he whispered. "I always am around you, sweetheart," and then he gently bit her ear. The movement of her hips was bliss, but he craved more, so he did the opposite of her actions and positioned himself so it wasn't her thigh anymore. This was the closest he ever remembered being with a woman, so he quickly saved and savoured this moment.  
A shudder ran through her body at his low, surprisingly seductive voice, his teeth on her earlobe. As she felt him shift beneath her, his length pressing directly against her core, she breathed in sharply. Her expression then transformed into a devious smile. "I think it's time we got rid of these pesky underclothes, don't you?" She whispered, before suddenly sitting up, still straddling his waist. Slowly, with practiced ease, she reached back to unclasp her bra, pulling it off and tossing it aside. Then, she briefly stood from the bed to leisurely slide down her underwear, kicking it aside.

He slid off his own boxers and pulled Irene back into bed, exploring her mouth with his tongue and her breasts with his hands. Then he moved his mouth down too, lightly tugging on a nipple with his teeth and massaging the other with his hand. Though he didn't know it yet, it turned out Sherlock had quite a fetish for biting. 

A quiet, unexpected whimper rose from her throat as her nipple was caught between his teeth, losing one hand in his thick, dark curls, her back arching towards him slightly. This was different. Even for her.  
She was so used to clients laying, passive and waiting for her to satisfy them, that the sensation of someone attempting to pleasure her...it aroused her more than anything.  
"Jesus, Sherlock..." She breathed, her voice faint.  
Again, he left a trail of kisses down her slender body and on her inner thigh, before he began using his fingers to get Irene off. He was going to let her get close to orgasm, but she wouldn't have hers until he had his. Soon his fingers were coated with her wetness, and he stared her straight in the eye as he sucked her taste off of his fingers.

Her body squirmed and writhed on the bed as his fingers worked, sliding in and out of her. Her breathing was shallow, every other breath escaping as a shaky moan. When was the last time anyone had done this to her? Had pleasured her like this? Her hands fisted into the bedsheets, her head falling back, skin flushed.  
"Ohh...Sherlock...fuck..." Her hips rolled in time with his hands, her eyes closed.  
They flew open as his fingers disappeared, just as she felt she was drawing close, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as she saw his fingers slide into his mouth.  
"You're quite the little tease, aren't you, sweetie...?" She breathed, pulling him over her to kiss him hard, tasting herself on his lips. God, she wanted him to fuck her. Hard. And soon.

"I've got a lot more teasing to do," he growled into her skin, positioning himself to her core and sliding in a few inches and then right back out to the tip again. He was definitely teasing her now, but the friction he was causing was almost too much for himself, so he allowed his instincts to take over and pushed himself fully into her, pleased at how tight she was and letting out a small groan in the shape of her name to express this. He waited for her to either take control or give him permission.

Her toes curled, biting down on her lip hard to prevent a long groan of satisfaction from escaping as he pushed himself fully into her. Christ, he was big. Bigger than she had expected. Normally, she would have taken control. Dominant was her nature. But somehow, in this moment, she couldn't have cared less. She only wanted more. More of him. Her hips bucked against his, desperate for more friction, the actions of his fingers earlier coupled with his torturous stillness agonisingly teasing her.  
"Dammit, Sherlock..." She panted. "If you don't...start moving now...I swear..."  
He pulled out, and slammed back into her, repeating and building up a momentum. "Please do swear, you're so much sexier when you do," he said, breathing hard into her neck and nipping with his teeth. She was going to be covered in hickeys tomorrow, and the fact that he put them there almost sent him over the edge. Not so soon, Sherlock, he reminded himself.

"Oh.../fuck/..." She gasped as he suddenly thrust roughly into her, beginning a pounding rhythm that had her body rocking back into the mattress every time. God, she had not expected that. Hadn't expected him to be so exquisitely rough. Her hands gripped him tightly, one raking up his back, the other gripping his hair, her head straining back to expose her neck to his teeth. "Ah...oh God.../Sherlock/..." She moaned, her legs around his waist, a low groan leaving her with each hard slam.

"Now who's begging for mercy?" Sherlock said almost viciously, lazily dragging a hand down her body to her clitoris where he drew small, delicate circles and grinned at her, like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. He could feel the pleasure building deep within him, reaching an ultimatum with a blinding climax that made him buck his hips deep into her and cry out her name, burying his face in her chest and making his circling more frantic. His fingers against her clit pulled a whimpering cry of pleasure from her, her hips bucking towards him frantically, twisting and arching beneath him. She had never been fucked like this before. Never been pleasured like this. Every other lover had been so...selfish. But his fingers were too slow. Her breath was gasping, her skin burning, hands clawing at his skin. "Sher...Sherlock...ohh.../God/..." She groaned. Suddenly, she could feel him release, warmth filling her from deep within, his fingers now rapidly pressing and rotating her clit. Her head was thrown back with a sharp, moaning cry, orgasming along with him, her body trembling. "/Ah/...Sherlock...f-fuck...!"

After he had finished releasing himself, he pulled out and gently kissed her clitoris, admiring the fine mess he'd turned her into. She'd probably had better, though, not that he minded.   
He wondered if she had contraceptives with her, and when he realised she probably didn't, he felt just a fraction of hope that perhaps soon she would be carrying his child and how beautiful that idea was.   
But Irene was a smart woman, and wouldn't want to ruin her figure with children.   
Did she even want a family? He'd have to ask someday, but for now he just lay beside her and curled to the shape of her body, leaving a peck on her shoulder.  
Irene's body was left flushed and quivering, a soft whimper rising from her lips as he gently kissed her clit. She turned to her side, allowing his body to embrace her, his arms around her, feeling the soft brush of his lips against her shoulder.  
"Jesus...darling, that was...unexpected..." She breathed with a slight smile. "You certainly know what you're doing..."

"Mm?" He smiled, euphoric from what he'd just experienced. "And to think the first time this happened I was completely drunk." He looked to the window just beyond Irene. The snow was falling thick and fast now, in great white clumps being blown into a blizzard by the wind. "It's late. You should sleep, sweetheart," he whispered and wrapped his arms around her tighter than before, burying his face in the waves of her hair and breathing in its sweet smell. "Well, we'll be certain to remember this time,” she murmured with a grin, allowing her eyes to drift closed, her body relaxing into the bed. "Goodnight, my love," she mumbled, already half-asleep, lulled by the warmth of his arms and the sound of the blizzard wind outside. Soon, she was unconscious, a lingering smile on her lips, her hands resting lightly over his.


	6. Chapter 6

When he was sure she was asleep, he crept out of the bed and pulled his boxers back on, padding out of the room and back to the living room. He cleared away the mugs and bottle that had been discarded and picked out Recherches Sur La Phthisie Pulmonaire from the one of the many bookcases, a huge first edition that had to be worth at least £400 nowadays. He curled up on the sofa and read it cover to cover, finally finishing it when the sun was just visible between the snow-coated trees set in a lilac and orange sky. He watched it for a while, returned the book to the shelf.  
She stirred several hours later, squinting against the light streaming from the window. Fresh snow did have the capability to make mornings especially bright. Unconsciously, she reached over to the other side of the bed, seeking the warmth of another body beside her. Finding only empty sheets, she sat up, rubbing her eyes.   
"Sherlock?"  
She slid out of bed, pulling his discarded shirt on over her otherwise naked body, walking out into the living room to find   
him on the sofa.

He held an arm out to her. "Good morning, sweetheart. We're completely snowed in- try the front door if you'd like. I had to open the window for a smoke, it was awful, as you'd imagine." He shifted his seat and rocked onto his crouching position, hugging his knees to himself and watching her movements. He'd decided while reading, if she ever left, he'd follow. He'd follow her anywhere, including into death. That was Sherlock's flaw, once he loved someone, nothing or no one could change that and he was rather quick to love, though many didn't believe that. He hoped she felt somewhere close to what he did, if not the same.   
Probably not though, since he was broken and she was perfect. 

She stepped towards him with a grin, bending down and kissing the top of his head gently.  
"I'll take your word for it, my love," she said.  
"Still, it'll be more effective in hiding the house, which is useful. This place was designed to hide from your own brother, even Jim will have a hard time finding us here."  
She ran her fingers through his hair gently, an unconscious smile on her lips. She wasn't sure whether or not she should be questioning the intensity of her feelings towards this man. Everything about him somehow drew her to him. She was surprised that, in such a short time, she had already decided who she wanted the remainder of her life to be spent with. And although that should probably have frightened her, somehow she only felt comforted. She wasn't alone anymore.  
"Is there enough food to last us until the snow thaws, sweetie?" She murmured softly.

"I should think so, yes," He glanced behind her and out to the hallway as if looking for food to magically appear. "There's quite a lot in the cellar if whatever's in the cupboards doesn't take your fancy." He almost added 'check the dates', but he knew she wasn't an idiot. It began snowing again, very lightly, but the clouds showed there would be another three or four inches added by the end of the day. A draft blew in and he stood, taking a lighter from the above the fireplace and taking an old newspaper to use as fuel. The fire flickered to life, licking across the paper and he moved back, mesmerized by the flames for a few minutes and delighting in the heat it gave.   
She watched as he lit the fireplace with expert hands, grinning widely. She always had harboured a soft spot for fireplaces. Instantly warmed by the orange glow of the flames, she leaned up to peck his cheek gently.  
"This is a truly beautiful house," she murmured, before padding off to the kitchen to make herself and Sherlock some tea, possibly also to find some breakfast.  
Truthfully, the idea of being trapped here with him seemed more and more appealing by the day. She was surprised at the sudden change in herself. Before, the idea of going on the run seemed horrifying, frightening, lonely. But now, it almost seemed...ideal.

He had noticed the gradual change in her demeanor, obviously. A few days ago she couldn't say a single sentence without flirting with him in the process, and now she was this gentle, loving woman. She walked differently too, didn't hold her head as high. He wasn't sure if this was the true Irene or he was actually changing her. The snow continued falling, getting heavier by the minute. She arrived back in with tea for him and toast for herself (the bread had been in the freezer) and they passed the day with kisses and fireplace cuddles and reading. He held her close while she slept again, and he drifted off for a few hours too. The third day came and passed. No one came. Had they won?   
Another four days passed. Sherlock was amazed at Irene's patience with him. They told each other stories about dreams and ambitions and memories. Each day he learned something new about her, by noticing or she told him.   
Soon the week became two weeks, and it moved into three and a half. They'd lived together for almost a month and she hadn't tried to leave him once. He was astounded by her resilience through his moods, which were still coming occasionally if not as often.   
On the Sunday leading into the fourth week Sherlock came to the conclusion that Moriarty wasn't ever going to come looking for them, he just wanted them out of England. He told Irene this.

Irene waited and waited for Jim to come knocking at their door, for their perfect little bubble to be burst, for their dream to be shattered. He never came. Hours turned to days, and days turned to weeks. Frequently, she was worried that he would bore of her. She could feel herself acting differently, growing more comfortable, her normally overconfident demeanour slipping. Would he tire of her as quickly as the rest of the men did? Would he send her away?  
She kept her concerns hidden, for he didn't seem to show any sense of boredom just yet. He was as affectionate as he had been when they had first arrived, constantly granting her light touches, soft kisses, whenever she past. She would have been happy to go on like that forever.  
But she knew it would have to end sometime.  
She was curled up beside him on the sofa when he told her that he didn't expect Jim to come looking for them. Although that was how it seemed, she had worked for Jim in the past. She knew how he played his games.  
"He may be trying to lull us into a false sense of security, my love," she murmured, tracing light, abstract patterns on his arm.  
"Waiting for us to relax, waiting for us to become vulnerable, before picking us off.." She glanced up at him, her expression sad. "Perhaps...we should move on soon. He can't have just left us. I know Jim. He despises loose ends. And that's what he considers us to be."

He tilted his head to look down at her. "If you want to keep moving, I'll follow you. But don't ever think you're not safe, because as long as I'm here I won't let Jim Moriarty touch you." He kissed the side of her head. "But he did promise three days, and it's been a month. Not that I've minded." He remembered the first night they'd spent here and how glorious it had been. Then he frowned. "Irene..did you ever use anything after the first night? Contraceptive-wise?" He couldn't recall her doing so, but it had been four weeks and he was sure any signs of pregnancy would have arisen, even if they were slight. He then realised he hadn't been watching her food intake, which would probably be his only sign since he didn't know when her menstrual cycle hit its peak. Most of Sherlock's mind was telling him he was making things up and the chances of this were highly unlikely, but a tiny, tiny glimmer of hope in him just whispered please.

"I was on the pill, my love...It's necessary, business-wise.." she murmured. Was that a flicker of disappointment she saw in his eyes? Had he...Had he been hoping that he had impregnated her? She had assumed children would be an option, she had planned on becoming a mother at some point, but so soon?  
They were still in danger. She could feel it. Jim was still lurking, waiting for them. She couldn't bring a child into that.  
But...  
The thought of Sherlock's child. With his beautiful blue eyes and his dark hair and his gorgeously defined features. The idea appealed to her more than she expected it to. She leaned up to kiss his lips gently.  
"Some day, my love," she whispered.  
"For now...I'm not sure whether or not we should stay. We are well hidden, but...I have a feeling Jim will be back. And we can't hide here from him forever. It's your decision."

He did try to hide his disappointment, he really did, but she noticed anyway. "There's a place in Ireland, but that would mean we'd have to get through a few checks, though I suppose if we informed Mycroft, he could cover up our alibis." He wasn't keen on talking to his older brother, but whatever kept her safe. He would allow himself to be upset that she wasn't with child after she had gone to bed.  
"I believe there's a ferry leaving from Pembroke at half five going to Rosslare in County Wexford," he said while watching the last few flames on the fire die out.

Irene could hear the shift in his tone, the slight note of melancholy in his voice. He must be disappointed, however hard he tried to hide it. One day, she could see herself carrying his child, but for now...it was too unstable. Too fast. They were in hiding. She wasn't about to do that to the perfect little child she could see in her mind.  
She caressed his cheek gently, hoping to bring him out of this cold, blank state he ventured into whenever he was upset.  
"I don't want to leave either, sweetie. But sometimes, we need to do what is necessary. And Ireland is beautiful." She slid into his lap, facing him, kissing his lips gently. "I want a home with you, I don't care where that is."

 

He kept his head down but looked up to her. "You want to live with me? Permanently?" As soon as this was over, as soon as Moriarty and Moran were gone, he'd buy her as many houses as she wanted. He would give her everything. And if he didn't live long enough to do that, then he'd leave her whatever he had. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, suddenly craving a simple hug. Sherlock didn't understand why he was so affectionate towards her; but he didn't see why that was a problem. He took out his phone and began booking ferry tickets, arranging a cab too. 

"Of course I want to live with you, you silly man," she chuckled, wrapping her arms around his neck, her cheek resting on his shoulder. They sat in silence for a while afterwards as he scrolled through various ferry tickets. Then the nick came. A sharp tap at the door. Irene visibly winced.  
It had to be him.  
Nobody else knew of this place.  
She had the sudden urge to sob. They were found. It was finished.  
She glanced at him.  
"You answer it," she whispered. "He's less likely to kill you on sight. He can't handle his games ending quickly."

Sherlock allowed Irene to get off him before standing. "Go down to the cellar. There's a door behind the mains box, if you push it over you'll be able to open it. It's a safe room, once you go in and close the door no one can get in, only you can get out. Please," he begged her. With a lingering kiss pressed to her forehead, he left and opened the door. "Hello, old friend," Moriarty grinned. "I really hope you don't mind -because I don't give a damn if you do- but I've brought a friend along with me." Moran stepped out from behind him and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, unfazed.   
"Now that's hardly playing fair, Jim," he said.   
Moriarty gave him that deliriously blank face. "I never said I would play fair. Where's Irene? Popped out to the shops? She's remarkably obedient once you give her the correct training, but I don't think you would be enough of a man for that."   
He turned slightly. "Moran, look for dear Miss Adler, would you?"   
Moran grunted and approached the doorway which Sherlock fully intended to block.   
In the time it took Sebastian to raise his fist to Sherlock, the detective had kicked him in the shin and elbowed his chin, causing his head to fly back, therefore making his brain hit the back of his skull and Moran fell to the ground unconscious in a matter of seconds. "There," Sherlock smiled at Moriarty, "Now you can come in."

Irene wanted to protest, to beg him to come with her, but something in his expression stopped her. Nodding obediently, she pulled him down to kiss his lips briefly before disappearing out the door. She found the safe room quickly, locking herself inside, curling up in one of the corners. The room was situated just below the living room, and she could hear the muffled voices of Jim and Sherlock above her, barely able to make out the words. Suddenly, she heard a curse, and the sound of a body hitting the floor.  
Please don't be Sherlock. Please don't be Sherlock.  
The mumble of voices resumed, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Moriarty was angry now, since he had no way of physically beating Sherlock. If he wanted to, Sherlock could easily kill him, except now that there was a gun on him he was less hasty. In the second Jim had pulled his gun, Sherlock pulled his too and now both men had a bullet aimed at their head. All it took was one tiny squeeze, Sherlock reminded himself. "Do you know why Irene ran from me, Sherlock?" The other man spoke as if he was bored already, so Sherlock copied.   
"Of course I do. You abused her and she took it until one day she realised she didn't have to and she left your organisation. She took something with her though, which is why you're after her, but I don't know what it is. Not something expensive, no, you wouldn't come looking for money."   
He studied Moriarty and the answer came to him. "Someone. She took someone close to you and you want revenge, a death for a death."   
"You're as fast as you always were, Sherlock. She took my brother from me, and she sent him over the edge. He killed himself. Tragic, really," Moriarty said, his eyes studying the room.   
"So in return, I'm going to take the thing closest to her."


	7. Chapter 7

Irene sat, huddled in the tiny metal room,terror coursing through her veins.   
She hadn't told Sherlock everything about Jim. Hadn't told him how he hired her to spy on his estranged older brother.   
How he had threatened to fake a relationship. She hadn't meant for anyone to die.   
Somehow, she had assumed that Jim wanted to mend the rift between himself and his sibling, and was using her as a twisted, manipulative way of doing that.   
Neither of them could have known how wrong his little plan would go. How crushed, how used the elder Moriarty would feel when he discovered that she had been working for Jim. He was too ashamed of what his brother had become. Too devastated when he discovered that his affair with Irene had been a ploy. Jim had blamed her for his brother's death. And now he was here.  
But Sherlock hadn't done anything.  
As long as Jim didn't find her here, they would both be safe.  
...Wouldn't they?

Moriarty told Sherlock the whole story as if Irene had deliberately broken his brother, and he knew she would be able to hear it, but he also knew it wasn't true. She wouldn't do that to someone, not his gentle love. But the more Moriarty said, the more Sherlock realised he could be falling for the exact same ploy. And he knew if that was true, he would do the same as Jim's brother did. No. No, that wasn't true, because she loved him just as much as he loved her and she wasn't a liar, he'd have noticed, Moriarty was the liar and he always had been, the spider at the centre of a criminal web. Moriarty said more, about how he was going to kill Sherlock and let Irene listen. "I know she's only downstairs," he finished with a grin. That was the final straw for Sherlock, and fueled on rage he threw himself at Moriarty, ready to kill.   
And then a gunshot resonated in his ears and Jim Moriarty laughed. Everything blurred.   
There was wetness on his shirt.   
He put his hand down and saw it covered in blood that had to be someone else's, because it wasn't his, no.   
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty called from the doorway and Sherlock reached after him from the floor as if he'd be able to do something.   
Irene wouldn't come up. He'd lie here in a pool of blood that couldn't be his, paralysed for reasons he didn't comprehend. That scared him the most -because he understood everything.

Irene listened, tears streaming sown her face.  
No, it wasn't true. He was lying. Don't believe him, Sherlock, please don't believe him.  
The gunshot rang through the air, paralyzing her. No...  
It couldn't be.  
It must have been Sherlock. He had to have shot Jim. She had kept away to keep Sherlock safe. He couldn't be hurt, not for her.  
She didn't move, frozen, until she heard Jim speak. Until she heard the door shut. She sprinted out of the room, up the stairs, as fast as her legs could carry her, seeing Sherlock lying in a pool of blood.  
"No no no, Sherlock..." She sobbed, falling to her knees beside him, hurriedly placing pressure on the wound. It was on the side of his chest. There was a chance it went straight through, and didn't hit an organ. There was a chance. She quickly pulled out her phone and called for an ambulance, she didn't care who found their hideaway now.  
"Darling, look at me, please look at me...keep your eyes open...don't go, my love. Stay with me" She whispered, her voice cracking, throat thick with tears. "Don't believe him. Sherlock, please...I'm yours...all yours...please stay awake..."

Everything he'd ever done, he relived again. Every memory. He felt numb, and put a single hand up that was taken and kissed, staying pressed to a mouth. He looked up. There she was. His angel, begging him to stay, while on the other side another waited with a hand held out and a soft smile on her face, silently asking him to leave. The only two women he'd ever loved were here, and he knew which one he was going to choose. "I'll see you soon," he whispered to his mother, and she was gone. Irene blurred again and refocused, and he took the icy-cold hand pressed to her mouth and lovingly stroked her cheek, wiping away a tear.

Irene pressed soft kisses to his fingers, his palm, his wrist. One hand pressed down on the wound in his chest, holding back the bleeding as much as she could, the other stroking his cheek. Her words were soft and whispered, half-sobbed pleas for him to stay awake, stay with her. His eyes kept closing and opening, locking onto hers and drifting away, but he was fighting. He was always a fighter, her Sherlock. Soon, the ambulance pulled up the rough path outside and paramedics rushed in, shouting words like 'trauma kit' and 'stretcher'. She begged to be allowed to stay with him, clinging to his limp arm, and reluctantly they agreed. Soon, they were being rushed to hospital, Sherlock covered in bandages and hooked up to machines within the ambulance, Irene sitting beside him, keeping a tight hold on his hand. Over and over, she told herself that crying would t help him, wouldn't cure him, but it was no use. 

She cried, and kissed his hand, and waited.

When he woke up, Sherlock decided he'd had enough of hospitals for the whole year, and sat up. Irene wasn't in the room, which terrified him, but as he tried to get up the pain from his stitches was too much and he couldn't. A doctor came in, checked his obs and told him he was lucky and all the rest and said he'd send Irene in. He nodded and observed his surroundings while he waited for her. Moriarty was still out there somewhere, as was Moran. He felt angry and disappointed in himself, but he always did so it couldn't be helped. Sherlock remembered seeing his mother there after he'd been shot. He'd never believed in God before, and probably never would. She had simply been placed there by his subconscious as a comfort in what had seemed to be his last few moments.


	8. Chapter 8

Irene hurried in the moment the doctor called, telling her that Sherlock was awake. It had been two days since he had been shot. The bullet had hit him just between the ribs, and had narrowly missed his heart, but he would heal.  
He would be fine.  
The moment she saw him, she rushed forward, but stopped at the last minute, recalling what he had heard from Jim. Did he believe him? Did he want her to be here. She hovered, close to the bed, her hand half extended towards him, eyes reddened from crying.  
She was silent.  
She didn't know what to say to him. Didn't know if he wanted to speak to her.

"I'm fed up of waking up in hospital beds," he said while still examining the room. When there wasn't a reply, he looked at her to see a rather scared expression. Was he all mangled? He gave himself a once over and saw that he was fine. "What's wrong, sweetheart? You look positively terrified of me, so please tell me what the matter is."  
She hesitantly walked further forwards, tentatively allowing her fingers to rest on his cheek. She had cried so much these past few days, she barely noticed the tears falling anymore.  
"You...You still want me to be here? After what Jim said, I mean..." She murmured, her voice careful. "You didn't believe him..."

"Of course I didn't believe him. The next time I see him, I will shoot him. I don't care if it's in the middle of a public place- I will kill him." He sighed. "But he probably won't give me the chance very often. He's heading to Germany, you see, he had the tickets and his passport in his suit. He's not coming back. Not that he told me that, but he won't." Sherlock pushed his cheek into her hand, almost nuzzling it. "I didn't want to leave you, darling. I've been faced with death before and I wasn't scared, but that time I was. I didn't want to go."  
"I'm glad you stayed..." She sighed, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, leaning close to place a gentle kiss on his lips, relief washing through her.  
"You had me scared for a while there, sweetheart," she whispered, her forehead resting on his.  
"Next time, do me a favour and let me shoot Jim. I want him to die for this,"

"You're not going to see him as long as you live, but alright." He kept their foreheads together and moved up to kiss her passionately. "In my head, we're safe now, but what about you, sweetheart? What do you think?"

"He thinks you're dead...that's quite safe," she replied as they broke apart, her lips lingering close to his. The relief between them was tangible. She could taste the word 'safe' on his lips, and it was so sweet.  
"But I want to kill him. Until then..." She murmured with a sly smile, leaning forward to kiss him again, her words breathed against his lips. "I rather miss having you all to myself, darling."

"I think you'll have to go and get me some discharge forms as soon as I can get up," he whispered back while going in for another kiss. "I'm not sure you could deal with living in that cottage anymore, so where will we go? Pick anywhere you like."   
"You mentioned a place in Ireland.. but if you'd prefer to go somewhere more exotic, I wouldn't mind," she replied with a smile, "Although I'm making sure you stay here until you're fit to leave," she added mock-sternly. "No more skipping off as soon as you can stand. This was a bad injury."

"You pick, I insist. Ple-e-e-ease can I leave earlier? I've survived drug overdoses worse than this," he pouted childishly but couldn't keep in his laughter for long. It really was blissful, not having assassins after you. This must be how the commonwealth felt.  
She rolled her eyes, but couldn't home back her own answering laughter."Be a good boy and do as you're told, then we'll see..." She chuckled.  
"We could go anywhere, darling. We're free now, we can explore the world. I'd like to go somewhere warm, but it depends on where you have properties. I'm sure you have a few locations up your sleeve"

He scoffed. "Please, my brother is the government,and since he worries about me so much he used to send me on little holidays, so I have properties where ever I want them to be. But right now I have two houses in England, one in Marseille, the one in Ireland obviously, and one in Scotland. There's probably a few outside Europe too, but I can see you wouldn't be comfortable in the States again."

"Mm, Marseilles sounds rather nice..." She replied, tucking her feet onto the bed and leaning against his shoulder, careful to keep her distance from his unitary and not move him too much. "I'm sure that's a safe distance...and it might be nice to visit a beach or two again. Besides..." She smirked up at him. "I need to brush up on my French."

He grinned at her. "Je serai ton professeur car je le parle bien," he said, using a rather good French accent, "et on peut vivre dans ma petite maison près de la mer," he finished and then laughed at himself. Irene's eyes widened, her own lips forming a grin. "Oh, I do adore a man that can speak French..." she purred, before replying in her own very convincing French accent. "J'aimerais que vous me enseigner, mon amour. Et je ne peux pas attendre d'être seul avec vous." He met her eyes with a perfected smoldering look and his voice dropped to that growl he only used in bed. "I need you as soon as there's no risk of someone walking in. Promise me that."

She suppressed a shudder of desire at his next statement, his low, seductive growl sending a chill down her spine. "I promise...I don't know if I can wait that long, sweetheart...you are so deliciously tempting..."

"If you can't wait that long, I don't mind at all, it's just that we are," he gestured around him and continued sarcastically, "in fact in a hospital and would definitely get arrested if a doctor walked in. Which would be awfully inconvenient, since I would love to fuck you senseless as soon as it's possible." He tried to shift to the edge of the bed and stand up, discovering that he could, whatever they were giving him on that drip was numbing the pain. "To France. My mother was born in France, you know. Her proper name was Violette Sumpter. Her grandmother was a Vogue model, which was supposedly where she, and in turn myself, got our cheekbones from. But enough of the Holmes family history. I can walk. I'm better. Let's go, please. I hate hospitals."

Fuck you senseless...the words rolling smoothly off Sherlock's normally conservative tongue left her slightly breathless with want. However, her momentary speechlessness was broken by laughter at his sudden nastiness, placing her hands on his shoulders and pushing him gently down onto the bed.  
"Easy, darling...you're recovering from a gunshot wound, and a serious one at that. Give it a little longer" She leaned close to murmur silkily into his ear, her lips brushing his earlobe gently. "I want you to have all your strength"

He sat back down like she'd encouraged, but that didn't stop him from crossing his arms like a sulking child. "I don't like hospitals. They smell and the food's awful and there's too many unsolved mysteries and every doctor is having an affair and it reminds me of when Mycroft was ill and I just don't like them, don't make me stay here, Irene, because you can take care of me, I know you can." It was a half hearted attempt that was never going to work, but it was worth trying anyway. He curled up on his side, brought one of Irene's hands to his mouth and kissed each individual finger. Just because he could.

Irene smiled fondly down at him, her free hand lifting to stroke his hair gently. He really was like a petulant child sometimes. Oddly, although most would find his behaviour irritating and juvenile, somehow it only endeared him to her. "Sweetheart. They need to keep you on consistent medication for a while longer. You lost a lot of blood, you need medical recuperation. I promise, the second you are able to heal without their help, we'll leave for France, and I'll personally nurse you back to health" Her tone was reassuring, soothing. "I don't like hospitals either, my love, but it's worth it to see you recover as quickly as you are. Your immune system really is remarkable. Even the doctors were astounded by your progress" She continued to absently thread his hair through her fingers, combing it gently, smiling down at him.  
"I do tell everyone every time this happens, I've had drug overdoses worse," he said mock-smugly. "Go get something to eat, love. You're safe to this time around, I promise." He yawned and was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. Stupid drugs, completely wrecking his sleeping habits. The constant rhythm of her hand through his hair soothed him, and with an apologetic look he fell asleep just as a doctor walked in.   
He ignored the doctor and went to sleep anyway.

"Shh, my darling...rest now..." She whispered, continuing to run her fingers gently through his hair until she was sure he had fallen into a deep sleep. Slowly she stood, careful not to wake him, although she needn't worry. The drugs that affected him would keep him unconscious for several hours. She spoke to the doctor about his progress, apparently the wound was relatively clean. Most of the damage had been repaired in surgery, now it was up to his own body to fix the rest. Apparently he was mending splendidly, faster than any other patient she had seen in the past. The news was a huge comfort to Irene. Thanking the doctor, she left her to replace the drips and fluid bags in Sherlock's room, quickly buying lunch before returning to watch him sleep.

He didn't dream much, there was just one nightmare this time. That was one of the secret reasons Sherlock didn't like sleeping; the night terrors. In the nightmare, Jim was at the cottage with them, and he was hiding down in the cellar-room while Irene was talking to Moriarty, and then there was a huge crack in the air and a muffled thump, and Sherlock knew Irene was lying up there dying, but he couldn't move, couldn't make a sound. He woke with a jolt and for the first time, didn't have to look for Irene because he knew she was there. His right arm felt uncomfortable, and he realised in his sudden movement he had dislodged the catheter in his arm and he hastily clicked it back into place before Irene noticed.

Irene had drifted into a dozing state in the chair beside him, her hand resting on his arm, his sudden jolt waking her instantly. "Sherlock...?" She whispered into the semi-darkness, the late hour causing most of the hospital lights to be turned off, apart from those illuminating the corridor outside. She could see his expression, an expression of wide-eyed alarm, almost panic. "Darling, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

"Fine," he murmured, "just a nightmare and not real and never will be," He wasn't sure if he was telling her or reassuring himself, but it seemed to suffice as both. He began to doze off again, but invited her to curl up beside him before he did, needing the warmth and comfort she provided. He quickly fell into a dreamless sleep, and woke in the morning having almost forgotten the dream.  
Irene spent the night curled by his side, her head on his pillow, her arm resting gently across his waist. She was woken when the doctor came in, tutting disapprovingly and reminding her that the beds were for patients only. She sighed and stood, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead before allowing the doctor to continue with her routine checks. She spoke to the doctor outside the room for a moment before returning, sitting beside the bed and smiling at him.  
"I was told that the earliest they would discharge you is three days from now, as long as you have proper home care, as you are still weak and still healing" She leaned close to whisper conspiratorially into his ear. "Which means, sweetheart, that we can sneak out as early as tomorrow night, if you like"

"Not bad, I suppose," he replied, but it didn't stop him twenty minutes later when he put a pillow over his head and yelled "Bored!" into it, then put the pillow by his side. "No offence. Not that you're boring in the slightest." Sherlock rolled onto his good side (conveniently facing Irene) and propped himself up on his elbow. "Tell me a good story, would you?"

Irene chuckled, setting down the rather dull magazine she had been aimlessly flicking through. She leaned forward, and began her story. She told him about her time in the States, after she had been rescued. About how she had dyed her hair blonde and gone by the name Elise for almost three months, switching careers just for the fun of it, from a waitress at a roller-rink, to a burlesque dancer, and briefly to a waitress at a Michelin-starred restaurant. She told him about how she had given up working and explored, living from hotel to hotel, adopting new characters each time just for the enjoyment of it. She told him of her most ridiculous little personas, visiting the Grand Canyon with it's vast pillars as a shy, red-haired geologist, enticing men with a slinky red dress and a cigarette in her hand as a golden-haired temptress in Las Vegas, becoming a chic upscale Manhattan shopper in New York, even posing as an Australian tourist on a whim visit to Disneyworld. She told him how she had thought of him each and every day. And how, although she explored, and met fascinating people, she wanted more than anything to return to him.

"It seems your costume box is much more exciting and filled that mine is. I wasn't expecting that. But the, of course there was the bad thing that happened. No one told me, of course, you just hesitated a few times and flinched A bad memory. A bad place and a bad time and you chose to skip over it." He placed his hand on top of hers and gazed into her eyes with a sincere expression, at least as sincere as he could make it. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but talking helps."


	9. Chapter 9

She hesitated. She often forgot how observant he was. She glanced down at their hands, not meeting his gaze.  
"I...I was staying in a small town in Oregon when he found me" She murmured.  
"Jim. He found me. He...um..." She cleared her throat. "I had brefriended some people there. Some families. It was a nice place, a community. I went by the name Carolyn. They thought I was an urban girl from Newcastle seeking a quieter life away from the city. I didn't know that Jim had...had discovered that I was alive..." She swallowed. "He came and asked for my services. I refused. And he...he sent that wretched Moran to shoot one member of that sweet little community for every day I did not accept his offer" She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath.  
"He didn't tell me. It took me three days to realise that I was the reason for their deaths"

He pulled her close to his chest, not caring about his injury. It didn't hurt so much, anyway. "I know. I was told what had happened. I just wanted you to be able to talk about it because it really does help." He delicately stroked her hair, not wanting to ruin the famous Irene Adler updo he knew so well. "I'm sorry."

"There was a child...a child, Sherlock...did you know that? A little girl who came to my garden to pick flowers..." Her voice was trembling, her voice cracking on the word 'child'. "On the day I accepted, he shot her, to teach me a lesson about disobeying him." She buried her face in his chest, feeling more vulnerable than she had in a long time. She never allowed herself to think of that incident. But he was right. As much as it hurt, as much self-loathing she felt for being the cause, to have someone else know and not blame her...it was a comfort.

"I didn't know there was a child. I'm sorry I brought it up." He shifted and took her face into his hands, eyes locked on hers. "If I promise to stop blaming myself for my mother's death, will you stop blaming yourself for those deaths? They're both just tragedies that we happened to be involved in, but Irene, sweetheart, you didn't kill them. Jim Moriarty killed them."

She wiped the tears from her eyes, clearing her throat before nodding. "I'll try, darling...I promise I'll try..." She whispered, before leaning close to press her lips to his, kissing him gently. It would be difficult to forget, to forgive herself. She knew that. But she would try, for him.  
"Thank you," said Sherlock softly. "While I'm having the luxury of looking at nothing but your face, I'd like to tell you that you are by far the sexiest woman I've ever met, but that would probably bore you since you get told it so often, so instead I'll tell you that you are the most beautifully alluring person I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. So thank you." 

A soft smile overtook her features, her own hand lifting to stroke his cheek gently.  
"My love, you're too kind to me. And you are by far the most intriguing, gorgeous, and sexy man I have ever had the privilege to meet." She pressed a soft kiss to the opposite cheek to where her hand lay. "Although I expect you're bored of hearing that too," she murmured with a teasing smile.  
"Mm. If you ask anyone down at Scotland Yard they'll tell you differently, but I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all of that. Would you like to come on a walk around this charming little Welsh hospital with me? And when I ask that, I really mean I need you to come along so I don't forget my IV somewhere and have a wonderful amount of oxygen pumped into my bloodstream," he grinned and took her hand, using the bed to help himself up.

She chuckled, helping him up, supporting him by his arm. "Mr. Holmes, I would be delighted to join you on a walk around the hospital," she replied with an answering grin, joining him as he took his first steps in days, slowly exiting the room, her free hand holding the stand of the drip-fluid bag, trailing it along with them.

As they passed closed cubicles, Sherlock guessed what was wrong with their inhabitants. If they passed an open one, he let Irene guess and then told her the patient's private life. It was a fun way to kill half an hour, but then Sherlock wanted to head down to the morgue. A hospital trip wasn't complete without a morgue visit. They headed to the basement and got to a set of double doors requiring a keycard. He took Mycroft's skeleton keypass from his pocket and they headed in, coming up with a story that they'd been sent on vital research and required a lab to themselves. He wasn't sure if Irene found it as fun as he did (probably not) but she did seem to enjoy watching him figure out certain mixtures. For example, Sherlock discovered that one teaspoon of a murder victim's blood contained high levels of cholesterol and testosterone, though the sample apparently came from a woman. So they were looking at the blood of a hyperlipidemia sufferer who had either recently given birth to a son or recently became a woman. He passed the microscope to Irene, having shown her what to look out for, and asked her for a final say.

"A new mother.." Irene replied after glancing into the microscope, inspecting the slide under Sherlock's instruction. "If a patient had recently undergone gender reassignment surgery before being admitted to hospital, it would be clearly marked on the sample. It must have come from a new mother."  
She enjoyed this, watching Sherlock exercise his mental abilities, simply for the enjoyment of putting them to use once again.  
He was remarkable. She looked on in awe as he correctly guessed the ailment of each and every patient, alive or dead, with nothing more than a cursory glance. She followed wherever he led her, taking a few chances at educated guesses herself, allowing him to teach her the subtle art that was his method of deduction. She could see why so many found his gifts disconcerting. There truly was nothing he didn't see. But she wasn't uncomfortable, she wasn't repelled by him. She was entranced. By the strange and wonderful man that had cast his powerful gaze onto her and found something worthwhile. If this man, who could see straight into the souls of everyone he encounters, chose to allow her to stay with him, there must be something of worth in her.  
She leaned against his shoulder as he inspected the samples of the morgue, occasionally murmuring her own opinions, speaking quietly after a while.  
"We shouldn't be gone too long, my love. If the doctors notice, they'll put you on watch, and suspend visiting privileges. And that will make it even harder to leave before they discharge you."

She learned quickly. Surprisingly quickly. She had the makings of a great detective, possibly better than himself. "I suppose you're right," he sighed and allowed him to lead him back to the floor he was supposed to be on. He missed all the crime scenes and inappropriate giggling. It was a life he'd got used to, so naturally any change would be peculiar to start off with.   
As she walked, he watched. There were only a few deductions he could make on her after about five minutes. Why was she still a mystery to him? Was that all that had drawn him to her, the mystery? No, obviously not, he thought.   
Not everyone was to be figured out and marked as 'boring' right away. A nurse passed him. Three children under five, divorced, beginnings of anorexia, post-natal depression and on her way to unemployment. Sherlock looked back to Irene. In love, anxiety and trust issues.   
Was that all he could get from her that she hadn't told him? Women are confusing creatures, he thought as he hopped back onto his bed. "One more day?"

"One more day, darling" She replied with a smile, pulling the sheets over him like a child, leaning down to kiss his forehead before taking a seat once more. "And once we get out of this place and arrive in France, we can steal a police radio and seek out some nice crimes for you to solve, just for a spot of fun. Perhaps million euro theft or kidnapping, mainland Europe is quite notorious for those," she chuckled, noticing his gaze fixed on her with an expression she recognised.  
"Trying to deduce me, Mr. Holmes?" She raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. "Tell me, what can you see?"

His expression remained serious, but he was secretly pleased about getting a police radio. "The same as the first time I met you. Absolutely nothing. Except that you're in love. I wonder who with. Is he a tall, sociopathic detective by any chance? I've heard they're ridiculously hard to come across nowadays," He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes.   
A doctor came in and Irene left the bed to take up residence in a chair opposite. It was the same young female doctor that had tended to him the whole time. Doctor Joensen, was that her name? Names were Sherlock's weakness. They always seemed to fail him when he needed them most. Dr. Joensen added a cacophony of drugs into the drip bag and asked Irene for a word outside.   
Girls. They were probably going to chat about babies or whatnot, he joked to himself, but there was no one there to appreciate it. He began to feel himself falling asleep and then he was out like a light. Sherlock was really beginning to hate these surprise naps.

"Oh sweetheart, am I really that obvious?" She said with a gentle smile, her fingers skimming his cheekbone gently. "And he's /much/ more than just a tall, sociopathic detective..." She leaned in to kiss him, interrupted suddenly by the doctor entering the room. After administering the necessary meditation to Sherlock's drip, she asked Irene for a few words. Several minutes later, Irene returned, her expression exasperated and faintly irritated, although it softened slightly at the sight of Sherlock asleep in his chair. Placing a blanket over him and adjusting his head to avoid a stiff neck in the morning, she bent down and placed a soft kiss on his lips before writing a quick note. She left the note on the table beside him before disappearing out the door.  
It read:

Darling Sherlock,

I'm afraid our little excursion earlier this evening didn't quite go as unnoticed as we had hoped. Although you remained quite inconspicuous, I'm afraid one of the morgue staff recognised me and put a word in to the security staff. Naturally, after checking the CCTV, they realised that we hadn't, in fact, procured that laboratory for a private study.  
Luckily, they aren't pressing charges, but I have been banned from visits.  
You won't have to wait long for me, dear.  
I'll be back for you tonight, flights to Marseilles booked and bags packed.

Missing you,

Your Irene  
X


	10. Chapter 10

When Sherlock woke, the lights were dimmed and the faint hum of a floor polisher could be heard in this distance. Irene wasn't there, which didn't worry him too much. There was a note on the table so he knew she hadn't just ran off. He read it and (after admiring her handwriting) stood, suddenly needing to pace to get rid of his annoyance at the incompetence of the staff. Damn Mycroft ruining his fun. Damn Mycroft ruining his brother's life, as it always had been.   
In his drug induced sleep, he'd dreamed of his brother again. But it wasn't a made up dream, it was just him reliving a memory and for a few seconds after waking, it had genuinely warmed his heart.   
He'd dreamed, or remembered, or relived, being four years old and being carried home covered in dirt over the shoulder his then twelve year old brother, missing a shoe and getting Mycroft caked in mud too. Mycroft had been annoyed at him since it was a Sunday and he'd had to spend his only day home from boarding school running after Sherlock.  
Sherlock took a pen and turned over the piece of paper Irene had written on, jotting down his dream like he always did when he got the chance. When he had finished he sat in his chair and read, waiting on Irene.

Irene spent the next day booking the flights to Marseilles, first class of course, using one of her own fake identifications from the States. Elise Peterson. She was blonde in the picture, but that didn't particularly concern her. She had taken Mycroft's ID from Sherlock's coat before she had left, booking Sherlock's ticket under his name, knowing full well that he had a passport, driving license and government identification with his picture but with his brother's name on them. After the tickets had been booked, she went shopping. The highlight of her day. Most of her clothes had been left in her now abandoned home, most of his had been lost in the explosion at Baker Street. After purchasing several new outfits for herself and Sherlock, as well as some new lingerie for herself, she turned her position to her final problem. How to get into the hospital. The staff would be on the lookout, they had been warned against her, but that wasn't a problem. Irene did love a good disguise.

That evening, once the sun had set and the night staff had resumed their duties, Irene had entered the hospital. She had worn her long hair loose, a rare occurrence for her, and stolen a deep blue nurse's dress for the occasion. The dress was ever-so-slightly too small, causing it to rise on her thighs just that bit higher than normal, a feature she had intentionally added for Sherlock's benefit. After using Mycroft's card to successfully make her way in, she headed to Sherlock's room. She knew he'd be awake.  
"Well, Mr. Holmes," she said smoothly as she entered the room. "It seems we're able to discharge you early." She smirked at him.

He looked up from his book. "Thank you very much, Nurse. You remind me of someone I know, oh God, who was it again?" Sherlock set down his book and pulled her onto his lap, kissing her lustfully. "I missed you," he said against her lips.   
Marseilles, he thought. Marseilles with perfect Irene. Marseilles to be perfectly alone with her. Perfect.  
"I'm playing Mycroft, I assume. I'll have to buy a laptop when we get there, and then we won't have to steal any radios. I'll just do a tiny bit of hacking. I believe the plane leaves in two hours, which is the exact amount of time we'll need to get through security, so..let's go?" His face was hopeful as he leaned in for another small kiss.

"Mm...I missed you too..." She breathed as he pulled away from her lips. God, this man could kiss. She smiled, pecking his lips gently before sliding off his lap.  
"Plane tickets and bags are in a cab downstairs, darling. I bought you some new clothes here" She passed him a brown bag which contained a smart black blazer, trousers, socks and shoes, and a purple shirt identical to the one that had been left at the cottage.  
"Dress fast, my love, and let's fly away" She murmured with a grin.

"How considerate of you to get me clothes. Thank you, sweetheart."   
Ah, the purple shirt. She'd actually bought the same shirt. He'd missed it somewhat. He continued getting dressed, then shrugged on his blazer, deciding he'd get a new Belstaff as soon as possible.   
Sherlock took her hand and walked to the stairs. Lifts were boring and he despised waiting. Some flights later, they emerged onto a very dreary, empty Welsh street. Not at all like London. But then again, there wasn't really anywhere like London. There were four cabs outside and after a few seconds of studying each, he opened the door of one to discover suitcases and Irene's coat and he smiled to himself. "After you, my love," said Sherlock and climbed in after her. 

He yawned, and was slightly annoyed at himself for ruining his habit of avoiding sleep until he passed out somewhere and slept for 4 hours. Every time he'd woken up, Irene was awake, or semi-there. How long ago had she properly slept; had a full night's sleep? With a gaze, he saw it was at least 30 hours ago. "Irene, you're going to sleep as soon as we get on this plane and you're not to object." He squeezed her hand gently, if such a thing could be done gently.

Irene slid into the cab with a grin, shifting the bags to the floor to make room for him. As he joined her, she smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder, hee voice soft as they set off towards the airport. "How's the shot wound, sweetheart? I've packed some painkillers for you if the sting is too great"  
Although the concern was evident in her voice, she just couldn't quite rid herself of the slight smile on her lips. She was disappearing again, but this time, she was unafraid. She wasn't alone. She was with Sherlock, and this time, nobody would disturb them.

"It's fine. I had a look at it earlier. Well, when I say I looked, I took my bandages off. Don't worry, I'm fine and I'm going to remain fine because it's basically healed up anyway. In a few months it'll be nothing more than a horrible scar." He sounded so vain, but Sherlock kind of was vain. He put his head on top of hers. "Pain just proves I'm still living, anyway." They had five minutes to get to the airport so they had enough time to get though security.   
Saving the remainder of her enquiries for later, she took his hand, and the bags, and hurried into the airport. Within minutes, their first class prioritising had passed them through security. From a plush, stylish lounge, they were politely ushered into the plane, before other passengers of course, their identification clearing checks spectacularly. They were shown to two wide, reclining seats side by side, where Irene relaxed comfortably. After days of sleeping in a stiff hospital armchair, it was a welcome change.

Soon after, the plane took off and Sherlock was momentarily discomforted at the change in altitude. He'd never been too keen on flying, but it was one of the methods of transport he recognised as useful. He curled in his seat to face Irene and hold her hand while hushing her to sleep.   
When he was sure she was asleep, he looked around him. There was no one else on first class. Odd, but understandable.   
A hostess came and offered him the grand range of interesting foods airplanes had to offer, if it could even be called that, and he politely declined, but asked if two cups of tea would be brought to him ten minutes before they landed. He'd need them to calm his excitement.   
While she slept, he read and composed, and wrote and made up cases for himself to crack.   
The hostess brought out two cups of tea. The time had flown by, and after gulping down his tea, he gently woke Irene. "We're about to land, my love," he whispered.

Irene stirred, looking up at him, blinking sleepily. That was the deepest sleep she had managed in a long while.  
"Mm...sweetheart...are we there? France?" She mumbled, sitting up. The last thing she recalled was Sherlock holding her hand, stroking her hair, murmuring softly to her as she drifted off. She smiled, leaning in to kiss hid cheek gently. "We're finally here..."

"I know, my love, I know." They were allowed off the plane first and flew through security yet again (though Sherlock nearly ended up being frisked by a rather flirty security officer, but Irene thankfully intervened) and after getting their suitcases they headed outside. There was a certain sweetness to French air that brought back memories of being seven years old again which of course were quickly stamped out. He called for a taxi and gave his address, allowing Irene to get in first.  
Irene took bis hand in the car, beginning the long, winding road through the beautiful country to his cottage. There was a certain something she had just always adored about France. She felt at home here, although her visits had been limited. Perhaps it was the culture, the delicate mannerisms, but she felt that she belonged. Especially now. With Sherlock.  
"That blonde airport security woman seemed rather friendly..." She remarked seemingly leisurely. One hidden part of Irene that was rarely revealed, she had a certain predisposition for jealousy. She was sure she has hidden her fury well, but she hadn't been slow in deterring the little tramp from pawing at Sherlock.

"Mm. Had a face like an animal, though. I can't blame her, it's hard to resist the temptation of Sherlock Holmes," he said, trying to remain serious and then bursting out laughing. He fell silent.  
"What do you enjoy about life, Irene? What's your thrill?" Sherlock turned and faced her, his eyes studying her inquisitively. "There's so much I don't know about you, my love. I can only know what I can see, but you have this fascinating way of hiding everything you care about. I don't mind, and I know why, but it makes it rather frustrating when I don't know something."

Face like an animal...that did certainly make her feel better. She laughed along with him, but fell silent at his question. What did she enjoy about life? "That's an interesting question, my love..." She murmured thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would be easier to tell you what I don't enjoy. The one thing I despise, utterly loathe, is monotony. Tedium. Having to live the same dull day over and over. I'm a person that craves...not excitement, per se, but occupation. Something that deserves my focus. Something I can absorb myself in" Her voice was distant, intrigued by his questions.  
She remained silent for a moment, before responding belatedly to his last statement. "I'm sorry I'm a little closed-off at times, my love. If there's anything you wish to know, you need only ask."

He turned and looked back out of the window, watching the rolling hills morph into fields of flowers and back again. "I think I can agree with loathing ennui." Sherlock wasn't keen on asking questions often in case he became irritating or annoying to her. He rubbed his thumb against her hand and did not speak again.

She reclined back in her seat comfortably, enjoying the serene fields and bright flowers streaking past as they wound down the road, the gentle strokes of Sherlock's thumb in her hand. She had no idea where is house was situated, and so after fifteen minutes of silence she asked him quietly.  
"How far are we now, sweetie?"

He checked the time on his phone. "A mile and a half, I'd say. We'll be turning into the driveway right about..now." The taxi took a left and the ride became bumpy as the gravel underneath crackled and shifted. He looked out Irene's window and watched the lush green trees pass as they did on either side. The car curved into the pathway made for a car and the rest of the journey was smooth. They stopped outside a marble porch with steps leading up to a grand home. There were several balconies viewable on this side of the house and if he remembered correctly, ten in total, one with a spiral staircase leading down into the sanctuary. He heard Irene's sharp intake of breath. "Er, yes. I did lie a tiny bit about the size," he mumbled, still smiling up at his house. "There's an orchard too, about a mile's walk from here. We own it, of course."

Irene blinked in shock, staring up at the enormous, luxurious...well, for lack of a better word, mansion. 'House' didn't seem to do the monument before her justice. Simple elegance and a uniquely French beauty radiated from the home, from it's towering white walls to it' polished, gleaming marble tiles to the ornate balconies she could see around the corner. She was awestruck.  
"This is...I...Is this all for us? Sherlock, I had no idea it would be..." She shook her head, turning to kiss him tenderly. "It's gorgeous, darling."


	11. Chapter 11

He kissed her back softly as the taxi drove away. She must have paid the fare. He'd give her a few of his bank cards later, even though he kept most of his money with Mycroft, since banks weren't to be trusted due to recession and easy break ins. "Being a Holmes boy has its benefits, I suppose."  
He took a faded silver key from his pocket and took her hand, leading her up onto the porch and round to the left of the house. He handed her the key. "Shall we?"

She squeezed his hand gently before walking towards the door, allowing him to unlock it. They walked in, him flicking on the lights, and she was struck breathless once more. It was...quite perfect.  
The furniture was light, modern in some areas, traditional in others, somewhat reminding her of the cottage. Everything had a pale, airy quality, adding a sense of brightness to the large living room. Bookshelves lined several walls, and she could see that most of the floor was open-plan, a feature she adored. Her favourite part, however, had to be the luxurious, beautifully carved marble fireplace with a plush rug at the hearth.   
"It's lovely...so lovely, Sherlock...thank you for bringing me here," she whispered before turning to smile at him. "So, my love...do I get the grand tour?"

"Naturally. I'll have to put the heating on first though, it'll be quite cold in some rooms until the place heats up so don't take your coat off yet, sweetheart."   
He left her in the living room and ran to a utility room, flicking the timer option on the heating so it would come on and then walking back to the living room, waiting at the door for her.   
He took her through each room, from bathrooms and the kitchen, a few guest rooms and a pantry, then up the stairs to the library, two more living rooms each as grand as the first, a large bedroom with an en-suite and then up a final set of marbled staircases into a huge bedroom with a balcony and windows lining one wall, overlooking the orchard.   
As he'd done before in the cottage, he took a running jump and landed square in the middle of the bed, before sitting up and watching Irene coming up the stairs in the reflection of the vanity mirror. 

Irene wandered through the vast house in amazement, marvelling at the intricate beauty in every small detail, every last item of furniture. At the final destination of the tour, Sherlock had raced ahead, leaving her to follow. She emerged into what may be the most beautiful room she had seen. The windows were large, filling the room with sunlight, but she was momentarily distracted by the view of the stunning orchards below. The room itself was truly massive. Wide open space in the centre, plush, soft carpets, a door leading to what she guessed was either a closet or a bathroom, possibly both, and, dominating the entire far wall, a huge, luxurious bed. Upon which she could see a grinning Sherlock. Smiling surprisedly at him, she walked forwards, shrugging off her coat and placing it over the chair in front of a large mahogany dresser. The sun had warmed this room, she had no need for it. Kneeling on the bed beside him, she glanced once more around the room, casting her gaze towards the balcony. It was large, large enough for a delicate white table and two chairs. Her mind the brief image of herself and Sherlock sharing a dinner there by candlelight. She shook it away quickly. He wouldn't have any interest in things like that, as much as it appealed to her.

"You live here now. Is it strange?" He pulled her close to his side and they watched the soft clouds roll by outside. "What am I to you? We're far too..for want of a better word," he stopped and took a deep, almost sighing breath, "intense for being partners." Marriage, he wouldn't mind, but it would be far too soon for her. Women liked taking their time and having a lovely romantic proposal and all that, but as far as Sherlock knew he wasn't in any way romantic. He just did whatever he thought he should do, without any planning or forethought.   
Mycroft would come looking eventually, but Sherlock didn't mind. His memories of happy childhoods with his brother had been pushed back down and though he was back to despising Mycroft, it would be nice to hear his brother's irritating voice. 

He pulled her on top of him and watched her eyes move with the pristine white clouds.

She slid easily into his lap, leaning her head on his shoulder, mulling over his words. "Lovers doesn't quite cover it, does it, darling..." She murmured. "And girlfriend and boyfriend sound rather juvenile.." She thought a while longer, chewing her lower lip gently. "I suppose 'partners' is as close as we can get for now. But you're right, it does seem a bit mild." She lifted her head to smirk at him. "And we're anything but mild, aren't we, my love?" Without giving him time to respond, she pulled him into a deep kiss, her arms winding around his neck.  
Living here now...  
This was her home.  
He was her home.

He kissed her back. "I believe, Miss Adler," he breathed, "that you had promised me something for as soon as we're alone," he pulled away. "And we're alone now," he smirked and then began fiddling with his hair like a shy teenager. Curse his confidence for disappearing as soon as sex was mentioned. "Mm, I believe you demanded something as soon as we were alone..." She purred, catching his hand, pulling it away from his hair. One thing she had learned about Sherlock, once they began his confidence overflowed, but the prelude to sex made him endearingly nervous. She pushed him back against the bed, straddling his waist, running a hand through his dark curls as as their lips met.

He pushed up against her and kissed back, intertwining his fingers with hers and locking onto her hands. "Please," was all he murmured against her lips before moving forward to kiss down her neck. Thank God for Irene's dominatrix past so he knew he didn't have to be shy. She'd obviously had to encounter the awkward ones before, so she couldn't mind him too much.

She knew what he liked, anyway.

She allowed her eyes to close as his lips travel down her neck. She always did have a soft spot for that. After a moment, she rocked back, pulling him up again, her hands breaking away from his to begin quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt. Within moments, she was pushing his shirt off his shoulders, her hands running down his smooth chest and abdomen.  
He shivered slightly as her hands brushed along the half-healed gash in his side and pulled her dress over her head, kissing the top of each breast that was exposed, giving her time to pull each pin out of her hair to let it down. His hands snaked through it as he kissed her again, feeling each soft strand brush along his fingers. 

She kissed him with fervent intensity, pushing him back down onto the bed, hid hands in her hair forcing her to follow. She pulled away from his lips to kiss down his throat, travelling over his collarbone before venturing lower. Her lips brushed his injury softly, the barest of featherlight touches, before whispering gently.  
"We'll have to be careful, my love...you're not yet healed. We'll take this one slowly."

He tilted his head back as she kissed down him. "I don't care if it hurts me," he growled, suddenly sitting up and pushing Irene onto her back. He moved down her until he found the hem of her underwear and began pulling with his teeth, sliding them off the rest of the way with his hands and moving back up to unclasp her bra. Both were tossed carelessly into a far corner of the room and forgotten.   
A soft, breathy sound of surprise left her as she was abruptly flipped onto her back, her protests about his wound dying in her throat as she felt his teeth against her thigh. Her underwear disappeared quickly, and her hands flashed to his trousers, undoing them hurriedly. There it was. The lust-fuelled confidence he found whenever they began this. For a dominatrix, she was surprised at just how much it turned her on.

He rubbed against her, teasing her and kissing her beautifully formed lips. His hands moved along her waist, taking each gentle curve of her body in and reveling in them. "You are so beautiful," he whispered, before switching with her so she was on top. It was easier that way, and he was less likely to seriously damage himself if she was in control. He liked that idea, of her being in control. She rocked back on her heels to slide his boxers down over his hips, briefly stepping off the bed to tug them off altogether, allowing them to join her lingerie on the floor. Quickly straddling him again, she rolled her hips against his, hissing at the skin-on-skin contact between them. Leaning down, she kissed him deeply once more, before trailing her lips down his jaw to his ear, murmuring huskily.  
"Ready, darling...?"

"Of course," he growled back, taking a hold of her waist and allowing her to guide him. He bucked his hips, pushing in the last few inches and threw his head back, shuddering out a long breath. One hand snaked up to cup a breast while the other kept a firm grip on her side. Their eyes met and he left a light kiss at the side of her mouth.  
A low groan left her as she felt him fill her entirely. Turning to capture his lips in a fuller kiss, she began to move, her hips rising and falling slowly. High enough that only the tip of him remained within her, before plunging down. Repeat. Over and over, his length was pushed quickly into her, each time eliciting a soft, gasping moan from her lips.  
"Mm...Sherlock.." She breathed into his mouth, her hands gripping his upper arms, carefully avoiding his injury.

 

The wound stung, but the pain was easily ignorable due to the endorphins in his system at the present moment. Something in him tightened, and Irene was too slow for him. He moved up to meet her as she moved down and the sound of their hips smashing together was almost blissful. Sherlock did it again, and kept doing so until Irene tightened around him and he had to hold her, her hands locked in his hair. Her moans began to climb in volume as he bucked his hips up to meet her, thrusting hard into her with every movement. She could feel a familiar, sweet pressure building inside her, greater and greater until it exploded. She threw her head back with a cry of ecstasy, her nails digging into his flesh, clenching hard around him. Soon after, she felt him release within her. Her forehead rested against his shoulder, breathing heavily, her body flushed and shining with sweat.

His mouth found hers and he kissed her feverishly, savoring each sweet-tasting breath that he gasped into his lungs. She moved off of him and they lay intertwined on the bed that they shared. She fell asleep. He stayed awake, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest while tracing light patterns on her stomach.


	12. Chapter 12

The light outside darkened gradually and the sky turned to a soft lilac with hints of blue. He woke her about an hour later, so she would be able to sleep that night. "I put all of the medication and tablets into a cupboard in the bathroom, if you want to," he mumbled. He didn't say the words 'the pill', but she'd know what he meant anyway.

Irene looked up at him, her sleep-dazed brain processing his words.  
Oh.  
Contraceptive.  
Of course.  
"Do you want me to?" She murmured softly, lifting a hand to lightly trace the shape of his lips with her fingertips.  
"There's no point in me even considering...the alternative...until I know what you want."

He hesitated for a moment, and then said, "I would love a child with you, sweetheart, but it's your body and you would have to go through so much more than I would, and I wouldn't want you to think you had to. Whatever your decision, I'll support you, and you know that." He kissed her fingertips and held her close, watching her tired eyes follow the rolling clouds that were becoming hard to see as the sky turned darker.

Irene bit her soft lip in thought. She needed more time, she couldn't decide this now. But...  
A child. Sherlock's child. She was surprised at just how much she wanted it. She had never been particularly maternal, having rarely come into contact with children since she had been one herself.  
But the thought of having his child, of raising a child in this home, with him...  
It was tempting. More than tempting.  
"The pill...I'm required to take it within the next twenty four hours. Give me some time to think, darling. Please..."

Sherlock's expression became serious. "Of course, sweetheart, I'm never going to pressure you into something you don't want- I don't think I even could, anyway," he smiled faintly at her and his stomach rumbled. "Are you hungry? There's food downstairs again, I'll make you something if you like. All the food is for you, anyway. My diet consists of bread, apples and milk, so.." his voice trailed away and he moved from beside her, pulling his boxers back on and walking into the en-suite/closet to pull on a pair of black pyjama bottoms. 

She nodded. She hadn't eaten anything since they had left Wales. Sliding out of bed, she replied to him. "Some food would be lovely, sweetheart, thank you." She followed him into the adjoining closet, mildly surprised at it's vast size; if course, this room would have an enormous closet, when something caught her eye. Half the clothes in the room were clearly too small for Sherlock. She stepped closer, leafing through the hangers on one of the racks. Women's clothes. Brand new, by the look of it. Many of them still had tags.  
She turned, raising a questioning eyebrow towards him.

He ran a hand through his hair sheepishly. "Erm, I bought John this house some time back. He was engaged to one of the girlfriends, you see. I think it was the one with the teeth. But after I had a conversation with her she left him and the house was kept a secret. Tragic, really." He stepped towards a rack and examined a shirt. "Whatever is in here has never been worn before and most of it will fit you perfectly." Then he left her to get ready, walking into the bathroom to brush his teeth and sort out his mess of curls. 

John's girlfriend. Ah. She viciously suppressed the swell of disappointment within her, mentally slapping the little voice in her mind that had been hoping he had stocked the cupboard for her, knowing that they would live there together. As he left, she found a plain, white, fitted sundress, sliding it on, finding a rather large supply of makeup in the drawer. More from John's ex-fiancé, she presumed. 

Sherlock walked past Irene who was sat at the mirror doing her makeup (there was a drawer full of the stuff in the dresser for some odd reason) and down the stairs to the ground floor, to the kitchen.   
When Irene padded down the stairs some time later, there was an omelette and a cup of tea waiting for her. "That's as far as my cooking skills expand, I'm afraid," he mumbled, picking up an apple and crunching into the sweet tanginess inside.

After fixing her appearance, but allowing her hair to remain loose, she headed down to the kitchen, smiling at the meal he had laid out for. She pecked his cheek before sitting down at the kitchen bar, sipping the tea delicately. "It's perfect, sweetie. Thank you"  
She ate quickly, having not realised how hungry she was, the omelette tasting quite delicious. Fresh ingredients, she guessed.  
After finishing her food and her tea, she placed the dishes in the sink, before turning to him, seeing his gaze directed out the nearby window at the burnt orange sky.

"They never lived here..at all..if that's what you're thinking about. This is our house and it's only ever belonged to us...well, apart from a few years of when I was a child." Sherlock didn't want her to think she was getting second best. He'd never allow that, naturally. A bird stopped on the window ledge and he threw the rest of his apple out of the window for it. "There's still a lot about this house you don't know, my love, so feel free to do some exploring." He would head down to the lab later, perhaps. Or maybe up to the music rooms. He had always wanted to come to this house for a little while; it had everything. Maybe he'd take Irene for a walk through the orchards, or over to the farmers' across the way where he'd got the eggs. Tomorrow, he told himself.

 

She sighed, coming over to him to kiss his lips gently.  
She did have some quite serious thinking to do.  
"I may go for a walk around the house, my love. If that's alright with you,"  
She knew he would pick up on the second, unsaid part of her statement.  
Her mind was reeling, too much had happened too fast. She needed to think. She needed time to process.

"Of course. There's a nice shaded seat to the west of the house. Nice to think in. I'll be downstairs if you need me." As she left, he cleared up the dishes and walked out of the kitchen to the pantry, where a door lead to a few flights of stairs going down to his laboratory. Mycroft often left him little treats down here, and he saw that there were more than a few by now. He set about studying platelets under the effect of difference diseases and drugs and other little things that came into his head. 

Irene nodded, wandering through the house, losing herself several times before she came to the seat he meant. A window seat, cushioned by soft pillows, set into the wall beneath a window looking out towards the orchard. Curling up on the seat, she leaned her head on the window pane, and proceeded to run through every detail of the past week in her mind. Sherlock being shot, she winced at the memory, the ride to hospital, the agonising, endless waiting for him to wake.  
She turned her attention to the most difficult decision of her life. She could easily leave the pill aside, there was a high chance they had not conceived a child regardless of the lack of contraception.  
But if they had?  
She placed her hand over her stomach, her teeth worrying her lip.  
Could she have his child so soon? They had been together almost two months. They hadn't been married, and, although she wasn't the traditional sort, Irene had been hoping to marry at some point in her life.  
Was it too fast.  
She closed her eyes. This was too difficult for her. Try as she might, she couldn't quite erase the image of a little, high-cheekboned baby, a baby with their father's intense, bright blue eyes, and his inky black curls, and his fascinating inquisitive nature, and his unparalleled intelligence.  
She wanted his child.  
But she wasn't sure if she was ready to raise one yet.

Sherlock knew she'd take the pill. It was her own choice, and like he'd said, he would stand by that. But that didn't stop him from having to push the microscope aside and bury his head in his hands. She was intelligent. It would be too early for her. But he had waited so very long for someone to be his and only his. He'd long given up on dreams of family and children, because it didn't seem like they would happen. Didn't seem like anyone would ever be his.

He looked around the room, making sure she wasn't there and put his head in his hands again. A miniscule pool of liquid hit the table underneath him and he quickly wiped the incriminating evidence away from his cheek. He wanted this so badly. A perfect little family. She wasn't ready. 

Irene needed to speak to him about this. Their child. Their family. She couldn't decide this alone, the weight of it was too much for her to bear. She headed back down to the door she had seen him disappear into earlier, opening it to find a set of stairs. Walking down them slowly, she emerged into a large, well-lit laboratory, everything pristine and white. By one of the workbenches, she saw Sherlock, his face buried into his hands. She hurried over to him, concern dominating her features.  
"Darling? Are you alright?" She asked quickly, wrapping her arms around his waist.

He looked up to her worried expression and his mind was made up. He knew what he was going to do, and she could decide whether she wanted him or not afterwards. "I'm fine," he mumbled, "are you?"

"I'm fine, my love...but you clearly aren't," she murmured, cupping his cheek in her hand. His eyes were slightly red, and his voice was faint. Something was quite obviously bothering him very much. "What's the matter, Sherlock? Is it the injury? Does it hurt?" She asked worriedly. "I can find you some painkillers if you like."

He pulled her onto his lap and thought for a minute, before taking a deep, slightly-shaky breath.   
"I love you very much, and I never thought I'd be able to say that to someone. Well, I used to think I would one day, but I gradually just accepted it wouldn't happen." He watched her expressions. "Which is why now, I'm going to ask you to marry me. You're going to think I'm absolutely insane, but I don't see the point in waiting anymore. Wait for what? For us to get closer? That's not going to happen; we can't get any closer." Sherlock looked down at his hands and sighed. "I'm sorry. You probably wanted a lavish proposal with flowers and soft music. As usual, I've failed someone."


	13. Chapter 13

Irene's eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted in surprise.  
Marriage.  
The word resounded in her mind like the chime of bells.  
Being Sherlock's wife.  
Having Sherlock as her husband.  
Becoming Mrs. Irene Holmes.  
The words felt strange, the idea of being married alien to her.  
Tears fell; soft, slow tears sliding down her cheeks.  
The idea of flowers and music seemed lovely in theory, but that wasn't Sherlock.  
And she didn't want anything other than Sherlock.  
She took his hands, clasping them in hers, shaking her head.  
"No, darling, you haven't failed" She whispered, her own voice slightly shaky. "You saved my life. You brought me here, to this wonderful place. You showed me the life I could have with you. Sherlock, look at me"  
She brought a hand up to caress his cheek gently as he looked up, her eyes locked on his.  
"Yes, I'll marry you. My beautiful, beautiful man, of course I'll marry you"  
The tears were falling in earnest now, she couldn't hold them back.  
It was too fast, she knew it was too fast. But it felt right. She wanted a life with him. She knew that wouldn't change.

He looked at her in absolute shock and wonder for a moment, and then laughed, kissing her. "I love you," he breathed, "So very much." A single tear of his mixed with hers and he felt it roll down his cheek, but didn't move to brush it away this time.  
A thousand words and pictures flashed through his mind and he held her tight as she cried, catching each tear with his lips as it fell.  
She was completely his.  
He was hers.  
And that was going to stay.

"I love you too..." She whispered as his lips moved from hers, to her cheeks. Soft, gentle kisses rained down on her cheeks, his arms pressing her against him. Her heart was racing, fluttering in her chest. She was engaged to be married. To Sherlock Holmes.  
The very idea brought a blissful, ecstatic smile to her lips. She kissed him again, over and over, on his lips, his cheeks, his throat, his lips again.  
"My darling fiancé" She chuckled, toying with his hair, her forehead pressed to his.

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers, laughing softly. "Now there's a name I'll never hear enough," he said, glancing at the clock behind Irene. "Shall we go for a walk before the sun goes down?" He asked, standing and taking her hand, clearing away his experiment with his free hand. She laced her fingers with his, raising his hand to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. "I'd love to, sweetheart..."  
She followed him up the stairs and through this house to the glass back door, her hand remaining in hers throughout, a warm happiness overtaking her.  
She was getting married.  
She couldn't stop the words from repeating, over and over, in her mind.  
She had often scoffed at the weeping, falsely overjoyed brides she had seen on TV, but now, she understood. It was an incomparable feeling.

He handed her a pair of wellington boots from a rack outside the house. "Not very glamorous or Miss Adler-y, but you'll need them." He pulled on his own pair and led her through the trees at the side, coming to a huge barren field. They trekked across it, getting stuck a few times and having to pull each other out in fits of giggles. Eventually, they came to a small gate covered in honeysuckle and ivy that he helped her over and then hopped over himself. Before him was a small pond sheltered by huge oak trees he climbed as a child which usually ended up with him falling down to Mycroft.   
Flowers adorned the silky grass carpet, and he slipped off his boots and went barefoot through his personal secret garden. This is where he had hidden from his father's temper tantrums. This was where he spoke; had the courage to use his voice. He murmured the history of the place to Irene, explaining what it was to him and allowing her to share the place with him.  
Irene slipped off her wellies as he did, stepping into the small clearing. The pond was crystal clear, with floating lilypads on the surface. Daisies and dandelions and all other manner of small, bright flowers speckled the grassy floor, fragrancing the air with a sweet, floral, earthy scent. The setting sun filtered down through the leaves, giving the place a buttery glow.  
She listened in silence as he told her of this place, how it had been his sanctuary, his small haven away from home.  
Without a word, once he had finished, she brought her face to hers and kissed him softly, her arms winding around neck.  
"Thank you..." She whispered against his lips. "For showing me this. For trusting me...it's so beautiful here..."

Sherlock walked to a small stone bench and motioned for Irene to sit, before kneeling in front of her and taking her hands, kissing both of them. He took a intricate Victorian gold diamond ring from his pocket and placed it on her finger. "It was my mother's. It deserved to go to someone just as beautiful."  
His eyes stayed on the ring on her finger and how perfect it looked there. He sat beside her and closed his eyes, listening to the birds and the water and the trees. He breathed it all in and let it go. "Are you going to take the pill? You've still got time, if you're not ready."

She looked down at the ring, her eyes welling up once more, blinking back tears and clearing the lump in her throat before speaking.  
"I...It is. So beautiful" She squeezes his hand. "I love you so much"  
She sat in silence for a moment, relishing the scene, the feeling of his mother's ring encircling her finger. For a man who claimed not to know romance, he had the capability to make her feel so incredibly simple.  
She thought for a moment before replying.  
"I...Perhaps...I think so" She turned to him, speaking softly, her eyes on his. "I want your child, darling. So dearly. But I'd rather wait until after the wedding. We will have a family soon" She grinned at him. "I'd rather not be pregnant during the wedding, my love. Not to mention the honeymoon"

"I love you even more," he replied softly, and then Sherlock chuckled. "The wedding. I almost forgot there would be a wedding. And it gives a good impression if you're not heavily pregnant, too. You're going to be my wife, sweetheart. I can't begin to tell you how blissfully amazing that sounds." He kissed her forehead and turned back to the small pond. The sun was glinting off it now, and the pink sky tinted everything rose-coloured. Literally seeing the world through rose tinted glasses, he thought.   
"I'm not going to have any objections to what you want for a wedding. It's all down to you, from the guests to the venue. If it gets too much, I'll obviously help and we can get a planner in, but I want this to be your wedding. You deserve it for putting up with me so far," he laughed again.  
"I could say the same for you putting up with me, my love" She replied with a chuckle before speaking in a more serious tone. "Sherlock, I want our wedding to be a day perfect for us both. I don't want everything 'my way'. I want it to be something that reflects us, not me." She leaned her head on his shoulder, a smirk in her voice. "And then there's the honeymoon to consider.."


	14. Chapter 14

He put his head on hers. "Alright, alright. But you can still do the planning, since I'm awful with plans that don't involve crime scenes. We'll go wherever you haven't been for our honeymoon."   
"I'll make you a deal, my love. I'll plan the wedding, if you plan the honeymoon," she said with a smile, toying with the ring on her finger, watching it sparkle in the dimming light. "I'm sure you have a few properties in tropical locations we could use, but it's up to you of course."  
He nodded. "I think that's agreeable, but don't blame me if we end up chasing serial killers on our honeymoon. Speaking of that, Lestrade sent me a few cases while you were sleeping. I told him I'd only take them if it was okay with you," he said quietly and then looked up at her for consent.

She laughed softly. "Of course, sweetheart, of course. Have your fun. Catch a few serial killers for me," she chuckled, stroking his hair gently. "I'd be happy to help if you need an assistant, dear. It would be rather fascinating to watch you work."  
He grinned and kissed her. "Good, I'd like to teach you a bit more than I did last time, since you're a fast learner and if I'm honest, rather dazzling. The first is an interesting one. There's a 34 year old woman, divorced, two children, found dead in her home. There's a shot wound but no bullet was found. Lestrade says it was a revenge murderer by her husband who then hid the evidence, but he's an idiot. I haven't met her ex-husband yet, but it would be useful to. What do you think, sweetheart?" Ah, there was nothing quite like a fresh case.

"Mm, interesting...no bullet, you said? Well, the morticians would have noticed if the bullet had gone straight through, and a dissolving bullet is highly unlikely in a domestic case like this. That is rather interesting..." She grinned widely. "I can see why you like doing this, darling. It is rather thrilling."  
"Always full of surprises, you are. People say it's not right to get excited over death, but it's inevitable, so I don't see the harm in it." He put a finger to his mouth and thought for a second. "Two children, one's ten and the other is five. Ex-husband was part of a game club, but I know it's not him. Far too simple for Lestrade to have brought it to me. One of the children. The ten year old in anger? No, ten year olds don't shoot their parents. The younger one, playing, brings one of Daddy's guns out and," he aimed his fingers like a gun and mock-fired, "Mummy's dead. The older one hides the gun and phones the father, the father has since left the hunting club and shouldn't have any guns so he removes the bullet -which he would have learnt to do after killing game- and hides it. No. No, he wouldn't hide it. The ten year old did. Think, think, think." Sherlock knocked on his head and screwed his eyes shut. "Under his bed. He has a secret floorboard under his bed and that's where he hid the bullet." He looked at her expression. "All ten year old boys have a loose floorboard under their beds."  
He laughed to himself. "Case solved."

Irene blinked, stunned. Surely he couldn't have worked it out that fast, he hadn't even inspected the crime scene. He hadn't interviewed the children. Looked at the evidence. Anything.  
She laughed, a sound of awed surprise. "Brilliant. You're brilliant, sweetheart." She kissed him gently. "A true genius. Of course, you'll need to call Lestrade to confirm your theory, but still..." She shook her head in disbelief. "That was stunning."

The sun finally sunk under the horizon and within minutes, the sky faded to inky blue. "Was it that good? I'll leave a case or two for you, if you'd like. Perhaps that's not even your type of thing, I'm sorry for assuming." A faint breeze kicked up, but the air was still warm. That was the good thing about French spring nights; it didn't get so cold that your fingers hurt. Still, neither of them had a coat on, so Sherlock decided it was time to begin the journey back home and taking Irene's hand, led her away from the garden and back over the fence, giving a final nod goodbye to the place.

Irene spoke as they walked, answering his last statement.  
"No, I find it...fascinating. Truly fascinating. The way you pick everything apart and fit it all together in such a sensible way. The way you make even the most obscure clues seem so obvious. It's remarkable. But I highly doubt I would be very good at it," she chuckled. "I have a habit of missing the obvious at times."  
He stopped walking and turned to face her. "Haven't you noticed? Ignoring the obvious is what I do," he chuckled and started walking again, watching the rising hills slowly pass them. They moved over the field again which had since dried out somewhat, allowing for an easier passage. He led her through the trees and his eyes were on the stars this time. "You know, I haven't a clue what's up there, but it's all quite picturesque," Sherlock said, finally getting to the house and removing his wellingtons, leaving them on the rack he'd taken them from and padding into the house, leaving Irene outside to take her boots off. He went to the second floor and began running her a hot bath, leaving the contraceptives and a glass of cold water on the side. He found some oils in a cupboard and added them, watching each colour swirl into the steam and disappear from his sight. She must have heard the water because she came into the bathroom. "For you, sweetheart. It's been a long day," Sherlock said, kissing her slowly, and then leaving her to undress and bathe.

Irene was surprised, a near constant state of mind for her nowadays, as she entered the bathroom to see the bath filled, the air hazy with fragrant smoke. She smiled, kissing him gently. "Thank you, darling. That's so sweet of you."  
And it was. Just the tiniest kind gesture from him seemed to leave her speechless. When they met, he'd seemed so cold and calculating, but now? It seems there was a very considerate, loving man beneath that exterior, one who knew just how to make her heart melt with the simplest words. She caught his hand as he began to leave the room, turning to face him.  
"You can join me, if you like. Although if you'd prefer some time to think, that's fine, my love."  
As nice as a bath with him sounded, she knew he would want to catalogue and save the day's events at some point. When he decided to do that was up to him.

He kissed her hand. What was with him and all these kisses? He didn't have a clue. "As much as I would thoroughly enjoy sharing a bath with you, I'll have to decline. I can feel an awful mood swing coming on and I don't want you to suffer with me. I'm sorry," he said, and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him and heading through a maze of hallways to a small wooden panel. He pushed it, and it swung open on its hinge to show his old music practice room.   
The place had been soundproofed when Sherlock was a child, and quite often he had found his brother crying in here under the lie of 'practicing his violin' too.   
What a bleak childhood, he thought to himself, pushing the panel closed behind him until he heard the soft click of it closing fully before taking a seat at the piano.   
He found some sheet music and began Sorabji's Piano Symphony No. 4, a piece he knew by heart and lasted four hours.   
Obviously Irene would come looking for him before then, but it would possibly soothe this mood before it began and would make it less harsh.

Irene felt a rush of concern for him as he left, the word 'suffer' sparking worry within her. But she knew that when he wanted to be alone, it was best to leave him be. She would check on him in a while, but for now, she could allow him his space. Closing the bathroom door, she stripped off her clothes and sank into the water with a sigh. Leaning her head back, letting the soothing oils calm her body, she closed her eyes and thought over the day. She was engaged...she was going to have a wedding, she was going to be a wife.  
She would be a mother.  
In equal parts, that excited and terrified her.  
Opening her eyes, she spotted the pill lying by the bathtub, next to a glass of water.  
A silent gesture of support from Sherlock.  
She picked up the small tablet, a sudden sadness in her heart.  
But this wouldn't be her last chance. It would only postpone it, allow them to get settled into their new lives, their married lives. And then they could have their precious baby.  
With a deep breath, she raised the pill to her lips, swallowing it with a few sips of water.  
She reclined back in the water, her eyes sliding closed once again.  
Soon, she thought to herself, not yet..but soon.

He decided that if she did come looking for him, he'd stay quiet. His mood had dampened none, and if he was lucky he would be able to avoid drinking tonight. Sherlock had probably used up his luck for the day, though. Probably his luck for the year. He was going to be married to the most beautiful woman in London who had previously had a constant loop of admirers. Why did she pick him? He was just a sad, intelligent man with a tragically cliche childhood. There was nothing good in him. He didn't deserve her.   
His fingers hit each new key hard, thanking the soundproof walls of his hiding place. This is where he'd gone after his mother had- No, shut up Sherlock, he thought, you're to lock away all of that and forget it. That was the past, you idiot.   
Sherlock missed a single note and tried again. Missed the same note. He began ripping the sheets of lines and notes which was surprisingly easy since they were older than he was. He cursed. Cursed louder. How dare he think for one second he deserved Irene Adler? How dare he think she would want his child? He took a few breaths and climbed onto the window ledge, curling up against the cool window. The house curved in on this particular room, but she had no way of seeing him, he thought. The bathroom was to the left, not opposite, so it wasn't possible to be able to see into this room.

Irene stood from the bath after a while, draining the water and drying her hair with a nearby towel. She left it loose to dry the remaining water naturally, allowing it to curl in loose, damp ringlets. Wrapping her torso in the towel next, she padded barefoot into the bedroom.  
"Sherlock?" She called. Glancing at the clock on the dresser, she could see that she had been in the bathroom longer than she had thought. Where was he? She left the bedroom, crossing the corridors, peeking into different rooms, unable to find him.  
She was growing more and more worried. What had he meant when he said he didn't want her to suffer with him? She shouldn't have let him go. She should have asked.  
She kept calling for him, but no replies came.


	15. Chapter 15

He watched her progress through each room, sipping from a bottle of whiskey he'd hidden in here years ago. It tasted soft, but he drank it anyway. It wouldn't be long until she reached the room directly opposite this one, and then she'd see him. Not that she would find her way into this room anyway.   
He rationalized it in his head by telling himself it was a little detective work for them both; her trying to find him, and him trying to figure out why she wanted him. As the alcohol soaked into him, he began thinking. Did she even want children? Did she even want to marry him, or was that just pity? He'd never told anyone about his childhood before, so naturally everything done in response was suspicious.   
He pushed open the window, swinging his legs out over the windowsill and sitting on the very edge. He wouldn't fall, though, he didn't want to die. He just liked the thrill of being quite scared. He'd give her quite a scare too, but Sherlock didn't care. Serve her right for being a liar, he thought.

Irene pushed her way into a guest room, finding it empty once again. She was just about to turn and leave when she saw him. Rushing to the window, she could see him on the windowledge of the room directly opposite, a bottle of what looked like whiskey or vodka in his hands. She opened the window, seeing his legs dangling precariously, terrifyingly high above the ground.  
"Sherlock!" She cried. "Darling, please, come down from there! What are you doing?!"  
He looked up from watching his feet and laughed once humorlessly at her. "Do you want me to come down, Irene?" he called back, setting the bottle beside him and standing on the ledge. Despite being drunk, his balance was perfect. "I'll come down if you want," he said, looking back down to the soft shimmering water beneath him. He'd forgotten the pool was there. Oh.  
"You don't love me, you know," he called, "you just feel sorry for me because I'm so fucked up."

"No, Sherlock, no...sweetheart, please be careful!" She pleaded as he stood, leaning out the window to call to him. "I love you, I love you so much...how could you doubt that?! We're getting married, remember?! You don't marry for pity, sweetie! Please, just come back inside, and I'll come and find you!" She didn't move, not whilst she could see him on the ledge. She wouldn't go to him, she couldn't take her eyes off him, until he was safely in the house.  
His head snapped up. "Stop lying to me," he said, "Stop lying!" his voice echoed around the room as he climbed back inside, taking his bottle with him and then throwing it into a corner of the room. She wouldn't find him for at least ten minutes, if she wasn't smart. But she was, and she did love him, but it still didn't mean he deserved her. After what he'd just done, he'd be lucky if she even came looking for him. He could forget about having children now. Sherlock began crying, and slumped down the wall, suddenly finding himself sobbing. So fucked up, he thought. So awfully fucked up.

The moment she saw him enter the room, she ran. She sprinted to the opposite with of the house, opening door after door and looking out of the windows to see how close she was to the room parallel to where she had just been. She reached a room near the middle of the corridor, finding herself just to the left of the window opposite, the room she had seen him from. She was close. She entered the next room, finding herself a little to the right. There must be a room in between. There must be.  
Exiting the corridor, she ran her hand up the wall between the doors, pushing hard.  
It swung open.  
She rushed into the dark room, finding Sherlock, her Sherlock, curled against the wall, sobbing softly. She ran over to him, kneeling down beside him, pulling him close. She cradled his head in her hands, pressing it to her chest, her cheek on his hair.  
"Shh, my love, shh...I'm here. Don't cry, my darling..." She whispered soothingly, stroking his arm and kissing his hair gently.

He bit back more tears at her words. .She was there for him.   
But all he did in return was ruin everything. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, "find someone better than me, please."   
He was just going to break her too, and he didn't want that. Not Irene. She had done nothing wrong. 

"There is no one better than you, sweetheart...I love you so much. I'm not going anywhere." She continued to rub his arm reassuringly, holding him close to her, letting him sob into her towel-covered front.  
"Please don't cry, Sherlock," she whispered, her own voice thick with suppressed tears. She couldn't bear to see this. To see him in pain.  
But she would never leave him, not like this.

Eventually, he couldn't cry any more and he just stayed cradled in her arms, allowing the slightly musty air to fill him and then breathing it back out shakily. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. "What are we going to do now? I mean, these mood swings, I can take care of them by myself, but I don't want you to feel like you have to take care of me," he said, looking up at her and taking a soft damp curl, separating it into its individual strands.  
"Don't apologise. I want to be here, my love..." She murmured, stroking his hair gently. "I'll leave you alone when you want to be alone, but don't think you need to suffer in isolation just because you can. I'd rather be here to comfort you than to know that you're in pain and alone." She pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, murmuring into his hair.  
"That's what a wife does for her husband, darling...and that's what I'll be, won't I?" She smiled slightly, her arms tightening around him.

She still wanted to marry him after that. He let out a small laugh. "Of course." It was late, he was drunk, and she was tired. "Well done on finding me so quickly, sweetheart. Just another proof that this house hides more than it shows. Time for bed, I think, and if you want we can talk about this in the morning, when I'm being rational." he kissed her forehead and allowed her to leave first, following her upstairs to their bedroom.  
She undressed him in the bedroom, allowing herself the opportunity to check his wound for any damage. No visible tears or bleeding. Thank God, he still seemed to be healing fine. Disappearing into the closet for a moment, she emerged in a cream-coloured, silk, rather short nightgown, taking his hand and leading him to bed.  
"Please sleep tonight, sweetie..." She murmured as she turned out the lights and lay beside him. "You need to rest."

He held her close to him, one arm around her waist. "Alright, sweetheart. Just tonight," he whispered, closing his eyes and falling into a deep dreamless sleep. He woke once during the night, but was comforted by her soft breathing and soon fell back asleep again. Very soon after he drifted to sleep, she closed her eyes, nodding off herself, her own dreams peppered with memories of the past day, his proposal, his secret garden, the beautiful beautiful ring he gave her. Her arm rested lightly on his waist, her face just inches from his, sleeping deeply and peacefully throughout the night.

When he woke, she wasn't there and he worried that maybe she had left him, maybe she'd given up...and then he heard a crash and a muttered swearword from downstairs.   
He hopped up, having to stop for a minute due to the sudden difficulty his injury was being and then ran down the stairs to the second floor kitchen.   
"Are you alright, sweetheart?" he asked, walking into the room as he finished his question.

She jumped as she heard him behind her, spinning round, still in her nightgown with her hair loose behind her.  
"Oh, darling, you scared me. I'm sorry, did I wake you?" She stepped towards him, but stopped, suddenly distracted by something on the floor.  
"Shit..." She muttered, bending down to pick up several pieces of broken ceramic, tossing them in the bin. "I'm fine, sweetie, just...dropped a plate. I wad attempting to make you breakfast, but think you've finally found someone worse at cooking than yourself" She laughed self-consciously, tossing the remaining pieces of the ruined plate into the rubbish, before sending a saucepan-full of burnt and inedible eggs to follow them, dropping the saucepan on the sink.  
"I'll just find you something else, dear" She replied, turning to the fridge, pawing through the ingredients on each shelf. She had only wanted to do something special for Sherlock, however, she never cooked for herself at home, not more than occasionally boiling some pasta. Irene Adler didn't normally feel embarrassed, but she felt as though this may be one of those rare moments.

He laughed and walked behind her, taking her by the waist and kissing her neck as she looked for something to eat. "Thank you, my love, but just you have some breakfast. There's fresh bread about somewhere, have some toast while I go get new eggs," he said, and reluctantly let go of her to go and get dressed. He ran back up the stairs and dressed quicky, washed himself and headed back downstairs. His wound was throbbing a little bit, but he ignored it. Obviously it was going to hurt; it was healing. Sherlock pulled on his wellingtons and headed over to the little farm, arriving back later with cigarettes, milk and eggs. He'd also pinched a few apples while the farmer wasn't looking, and told Irene this while he made her scrambled eggs and she laughed, calling him a child. 

She happily ate the eggs he cooked for her, along with some toast and fresh tea, smiling and laughing as they chatted, him tossing an apple in his hands. She enjoyed this, this ease between them. Two people that had so rarely found others they could coexist so easily with, finding perfect harmony in each other. She loved this about him, among many other things. The comfort he brought her. He made her feel so safe.  
Once she had finished her food, she placed her dishes in the sink, washing them quickly before turning to him.  
"Sweetheart, there are a few things I rather wanted to speak to you about" She said, pulling him close and wrapping her arms around him. "Namely...well, when you'd like to be married" She smiled at the word.  
"And who you'd want to invite. I'm afraid there aren't many for me to ask, being dead and all. Kate, perhaps, although she may not come. John, of course. Your brother...?" She asked hesitantly.

He cuddled her close, pressing a kiss to the side of her head as she spoke. "A summer wedding would be quite nice. We could have it here, if you'd like. A barefoot wedding," he laughed and then spoke again, "I think Mycroft would just turn up pissed off if we didn't invite him; we may as well. John would bring Mrs Hudson, and of course Kate would come, she practically adores you." He sighed internally. There were others he would invite, but he didn't want her to feel lonely if it was just his..associates there, like Lestrade and Molly. He didn't dare ask about her family, because he saw the blunt hurt in her eyes and posture every time he brought his own family up unexpectedly.   
She sighed, leaning against him, closing her eyes. It was June now, they wouldn't have to wait long to be married if they planned it for summer.  
"Sounds lovely, sweetheart. And please, if you want to invite any of your work colleagues" She knew he didn't use the term 'friend' often, but colleagues sounded friendlier than associates. "Please do. It would be nice to have them there"  
She thought about who else she would invite. There was Kate, of course, but apart from her driver, Thomas, who was under the impression she was dead, there hadn't been anyone else she had kept in repeated contact with over the years. The thought depressed her slightly. Could there really be nobody she could invite to her own wedding? Her family was out of the question. A father so work-obsessed he had become estranged, only visiting from his various companies around the world once every two or three years of her early childhood, and not at all once she had grown old enough that he no longer felt obligated to see her. A mother not much different, a cold woman quite distracted by the lavish parties and pretentious teas and floor-length gowns of the upper class socialite world in which she lived. Irene was passed from nanny to nanny, none staying long enough for her to grow attached. She had to learn her own way, her business, she secretly hypothesized, resulting in a luxurious, wealthy upbringing in which she wanted for nothing, and an utter lack of intimacy and care in her childhood. She didn't want to admit to Sherlock how 'fucked up' she was, as he had put it. But her parents had no idea of her life, they lost contact long ago and never particularly cared. The odd Christmas card every five years or so, when they fleetingly remembered they had a daughter. She was never more than a little showpiece for them, to be stashed away in a sparkling nursery and dressed in ribbons when her mother came home and sent off to boarding school when she grew old enough.  
Vaguely, she wondered if they had heard about her death. If they would even recognise her now.  
She looked up at Sherlock. Her heart and soul now. Her home.  
"Invite anyone you like, dear. The more the merrier."

He moved to pull a notepad and pen from a drawer, then sat back down, allowing her to fall back against him again and then handing the pen to her. "Your handwriting is much better, anyway," he said, and then called out the list of guests. There were still only seven guests, but a small wedding with people he was close to was more preferable than two hundred people he barely knew. And most of them could stay in the house for a few days, keep an eye on the place while they were honeymooning. "Maybe Mrs Hudson will come and stay with us and we'll have someone who can actually cook," he laughed and then she began planning the ceremony and reception, checking things with him and keeping on a constant budget, even though he kept telling her to go wild. He ran through possible honeymoon locations on his head, and then decided on the one place that never failed to impress him, from it's culture to it's beauty. 

She wrote out her plans in neat lists, from guests, to food, to venue, to supplies they would need to buy. It would be simple and tasteful, out in the dry summer meadows, with the flowers blooming and the air sweet and the skies clear and blue. The food would be local and classically French, fresh meats and fruits and cheeses and wines, and the reception could be out under the stars. She could see the scene unfolding in her mind, like a story, a fairytale. A wedding with her handsome prince in the South of France. She would have to go shopping for a dress soon, she knew that. She made list after list, carefully noting down likely prices. Since Sherlock owned the venue and knew many of the local farmers, food and venue were two that appeared to be pleasingly manageable in terms of price. She was going to ask him about his chosen honeymoon location, but decided that she would let him surprise her. She did enjoy surprises.  
"There's more to do than I expected..." She murmured as her pen travelled across the page.


	16. Chapter 16

He placed his hand over hers. "Well, there's no point getting a planner in since we know exactly what we want and anyone else would get it wrong, but I could get Mrs Hudson to come and help out if you'd like? If I'm perfectly honest, I quite miss having her around and besides, I think as my only mother figure she would slap me if I left her out of the planning," he smiled and looked up at his fiancée's soft grey eyes that seemed to change colour every time he looked at them. Occasionally they were definitely a faded blue and sometimes they were a damp grey colour. He knew when she dressed up she wore a pair of green contacts, but they irritated her so she didn't do it often.  
She smiled at him, setting her pen down to place her free hand over his. "I would love to invite Mrs. Hudson, my love. We can fly her in whenever you like" She always noticed how reverently, now fondly, Sherlock spoke of Mrs. Hudson. Since they had begun living together, Irene had begun to respect the old woman a considerable amount, and now began to feel a sincere gratitude towards her for caring for her love for so long. Clearly theirs was a bond that ran deep.  
"Who knows? Planning this could turn out to be quite fun," she chuckled.

"Or incredibly stressful," he murmured. "Plenty of hot baths and walks, I think. Stop us getting cabin fever." He cleared his throat and stood, walking over to a small box that contained the painkillers he'd been given for his injury. He lifted a handful and swallowed them, not needing to wash them down. "Mm, perhaps you could join me for the bath next time," she grinned.  
She glanced over at him, watching him swallow several of his painkiller tablets at once before turning to face him fully.  
"Does it hurt, sweetie? Why didn't you say so? You should be lying down," she said, her brow creasing with concern.  
"Irene, please. If I thought there was a serious problem I'd tell you. I'm fine, love." He set the medicine box aside and turned, leaning on the counter to face her. "I'd love to join you for a bath, though."

She paused for a moment before nodding. "If you're sure you're alright, darling" She smirked at him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her legs elegantly crossed. "A bath does sound rather enjoyable. Perhaps later today, dear"  
He nodded. "Perhaps. What would you like to do today? Another walk would just waste time..we could do anything. I'll maybe do some of this teaching I always say I'll do, or we can take a trip somewhere; name it." Sherlock hated not doing anything, or 'lazy days' as John called them. They were awful.

Irene thought for a moment before replying. "We could investigate one of those cases Lestrade sent you, sweetheart. I know you've been itching to be involved in your work again." She grinned at him, raising an eyebrow. "And I'd love to learn a little more about your methods." She stood, placing the notepad back in the drawer before pecking his cheek gently. "I'd like to see you having a bit of fun again."  
He pulled her in by her waist and kissed her properly, loving her more because she understood him so much more than he gave her credit for. "We'll head down to the lab, then, and you can have a flick through the files while I talk to Mrs Hudson and Molly."

They headed downstairs and he handed her the loaded document wallet Lestrade had sent him and pointed out the good ones, leaving her to it and dialling Mrs Hudson's phone number. She answered almost right away, and he cut to the chase, asking her if she'd come and stay for the few months leading up to the wedding. She was delighted, if a little surprised, and agreed.  
Irene's naturally jealous nature flared slightly at the mention of Molly. Obviously she was aware that she was Sherlock's good friend, and had no qualms about inviting her to the wedding, she was aware of Miss Hooper's lingering feelings towards her fiancee. She had kept a close eye on Sherlock during her first falsified death, and knew quite well that Molly was hopelessly infatuated with him. And although she trusted Sherlock entirely, her own proud nature caused her to become rather possessive over her love. She flicked aimlessly through the file he had handed her, scanning over the cases, unsure of which Sherlock would enjoy most.  
She looked up at him once he had disconnected the phone.  
"How is she, dear? Able to come up any time soon?"

He turned and grinned at her. "She'll be here in two days, if not tomorrow. So I suppose I'll have to ravish you much as I can before then," he said, walking towards her and taking the first file. "So, what do you think? I'll read through this while you're talking."   
His words stop her in her tracks, her expression surprised, before her lips curved into a sly smirk, eyes glinting mischievously. "Well, darling, now my thoughts have been directed in a rather different direction..." She purred.  
"I rather like this new plan of yours. But if you're still interested in following up a case, this one is rather interesting."  
She slid a file over to him, one detailing the case of a family convicted of harboring a man that had been found guilty of kidnapping their own children, and questioning why they would protect him.

He kissed her softly; promised her 'later' with his eyes and began flicking through the case notes. "And? What's your instinct? What do you deduce, Holmes?" He closed the file and smirked up at her, his eyes lingering on her ring that proved she was his.

A shiver ran down her spine at his expression, at the promise in his eyes. She could hardly wait.  
Her lips quirked into a slightly proud smile as he referred to her as Holmes, a reminder of the wedding that was soon to happen. The life with him that would happen.  
"Well, my first guess would be that this man is a relative or friend that has been falsely found guilty of the kidnap, and they are protecting him from imprisonment because he did not, in fact commit the crime. But the evidence against him is quite watertight, considering he was found in an isolated cabin with the children in a locked room, so it is rather unlikely that would be the case. I noticed that the father of the family worked for the Liberté Légale Law Firm, which I recall reading had suffered severe financial losses due to a large embezzlement of money by several high-up individuals, but that case has been recently solved. Since this family lives in a rather common neighborhood, I'd say that their father isn't particularly high up in the company, meaning this loss of money would have greatly affected his personal finances. He may even have been made unemployed. Therefore, he may have hired someone he knew and trusted to stage a kidnapping of his children, then use the the combined sympathy of his missing children and his recent economic troubles to gain sponsors in order to raise the money needed to pay the kidnapper's ransom. He would get his kids back safe and sound, keep the ransom money he supposedly paid to the kidnapper, and nobody would know. He obviously didn't plan on the children being found, and now he's concealing the hired kidnapper to prevent him from revealing his scheme to the police."  
She smiled hopefully, biting her lip slightly nervously.  
"Thoughts, sweetheart? I'm probably quite far off. But it's my best guess."

He put the file back into the document folder and took one of Irene's hands. "That was by far the sexiest thing you've ever said. Exactly right; a publicity stunt. That was easy though, Scotland Yard is clearly getting lazy."   
He took his favourite file out and flicked through it, taking each sheet and sticking it onto the pinboard that lay in front of him in his mind. "Now, this is a sticky one. More death, obviously. Young girl, found in a bath with her wrists cut. She was committing suicide, but her boyfriend says he heard her crying and went to the bathroom; the process was taking too long for her so he mercy killed her. Blunt trauma to the back of the head and water in the lungs, as would be expected. So we have a guilty boyfriend, but no murder weapon. He was questioned about it but didn't say a thing. Now why on earth would you own up to a murder and not give the weapon too?" 

Irene took the file, Inspecting the pages, her fingertip resting on her lower lip lightly. "Well, the obvious assumption would be that he's lying to cover up another, except the CCTV footage shows only those two entering the block of flats that night, with no suspicious figures to be seen. If he was lying about the suicide, why claim mercy killing at all? Why not say he was innocent?" She said,narrowing her eyes at the pages.  
"The evidence shows no sign of the blunt object used to kill her, but found the knife she supposedly used to slit her own wrists, with her fingerprints on the handle" She paused, her finger tracing a line on one of the pages gently.  
"Wait...there's a consistency here. Every testimony from the boy's family and friends says that the couple was happy, but every testimony from the girl's family and friends seem to slander him, constantly remarking that they always fought. Here, her own sister claims that he was 'no good for her' and she 'should have left him long ago'. Obviously, her loved ones have the impression he made her quite unhappy. And here..." She flicked to the next page. "The woman was at home that evening, but the guy seemed to have gone out for drinks with his friends beforehand. There's a testimony from the bartender, just saying what time he left, who he was with etc. Nothing useful, except this. He refers to him by his first name, talks about him with a significant familiarity. Clearly they were well acquainted, although the man in question didn't work at the bar, nor did he work near it. Therefore, he went there a lot in his own spare time. Now here..." She turned to a different page. "He said quite plainly in his testimony that his mental state at the time of the incident was 'quite clear' with 'little or no effect from any form of alcohol or drugs'. Yet the bartender claims he and his friends were some of his best customers and were celebrating something that evening. Highly doubtful that he would have remained sober. Why would he not state in his testimony that he had been drinking if the evidence indicates that is is a very regular patron at this pub? Why would he lie when he seems to be willing to tell the truth? Points to a potential alcohol addiction, in my opinion. Coupled with the testimonies of the girl's family and friends, I'd say he was less than friendly to her whenever he came home drunk, which would appear to be often. So he comes home, drunk out of his mind, and she's in the bath. He walks in, she confronts him about his drunken state, and he starts an argument with her. Knowing women as I do, I doubt she would have let him shout at her whilst sitting down. So she stands in the bath in order to argue, and the fight escalates. According to his records, he has several accusations of violence in university that were never resolved, so I can imagine he got a little handsy with her. Somehow, during the fight, she slips in the bath, hitting her head on the side, probably on the bath tap looking at the amount of damage done to her skull.There we have the blunt force trauma that killed her. Now the man doesn't seem stupid. He knows that if he called an ambulance at that moment, the police would get involved. And, if it came to light that he had been drunk, and they spoke to her family about the state of their relationship, suspicion would fall on him, and he would have a good chance of going to jail. Since there was very little chance, almost none, of him escaping a sentence, he needed to come up with a explanation that involved him in her death, but in a less negative sense, thereby decreasing the sentence and giving him a greater chance of parole. So he slit her wrists and claimed a mercy killing. I'd bet that if the inspected that tap, they would find evidence of damage, if they looked at the CCTV they could identify his behaviour as inebriated, and if they looked at that knife handle under a stronger infrared lense, they would find his fingerprints beneath hers"  
She looked up at him, as she had last time, chewing her lip nervously. She was still new at this, she had been hoping to impress him. Her only guideline had been 'What would Sherlock see here?'  
"Well, darling? Any thoughts? Am I close at all?"

"Are you sure you haven't done this before?" he asked. "It only took you slightly longer than I did, which is...amazing, I suppose. Yes, she hit her head and our young lady died, and then seconds later her wrists were cut by a Jekyll-and-Hyde lover." He looked down at the floor, thinking for a few minutes and letting a silence fall between them before speaking again.  
"Irene..perhaps you won't want to talk about this, and maybe I'm wrong, but the fact that you avoid talking about family and that you have the same untrusting instincts as I do..they tell me to believe that there was a lot of negativity during your childhood. It forced you to shut away and become intelligent, so very intelligent.   
Your dominatrix nature would come from a role figure in your very young childhood abusing you. You're waiting for children so you know they'll be brought up in a stable environment with loving parents. I don't know any of this, of course, but I can't help but notice some things.   
Talk to me about it. Don't lock it away anymore." Their eyes locked. "Please."

Irene was stunned, unexpected, stinging tears springing to her eyes.  
Nobody had ever cared about her past.  
Nobody had ever concerned themselves with her childhood.  
She hadn't expected Sherlock to worry for her, she hadn't wanted him to.  
But...  
He was going to be her husband.  
He was right.  
He should know.  
She swallowed nervously, her voice shaking slightly as she began to tell her story.  
Her neglecting parents, glancing at her as they may do a pet goldfish, bringing her out every few months to show off her looks to their visiting friends. Those had been her proudest moments. Those rare scraps of time when, for once, she had felt wanted by her parents. She told him about her father and his business ventures, how they kept him away, and her mother the upper-class socialite, a distant idol from which Irene modelled her own glamorous nature.  
She told him about how her profession was born out of a childhood entirely deprived of affection, utterly devoid of love.  
Her parents considered her decoration, an accessory. Her nannies and and went too frequently to ever really care for her.  
Lastly, when she had finally found the courage, she told him of the tutor that she had in her youth. The sharp woman with the musty clothes and the thin spectacles and the sharp voice. The one who consistently reminded her that she was an object to her parents, a toy, not a child. The one that always told her that she would never be loved. That she was useless and would follow orders her whole life, and would only be seen for her pretty face, and would never be a 'real person'. The woman hit her, hard, never on the face so her parents never knew, but it was the words that stung the most.  
She told her entire story to her hands, clasping them together in her lap and watching the tears land on them, not once looking up.

Sherlock stood and listened to her. By the end, he was in complete shock. How dare anyone talk to her like that? How dare anyone lay a hand on her?  
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," was all he managed to mumble out. Come on, Sherlock, she needs you, he thought.   
He got to his knees and took her hands, wiping away her tears. "I love you, and you are a real person to me. I have never, and I never will just glance at you, because I can't. Every time I look at you I see this beautiful, intelligent, charismatic, mysterious woman, who has been strong enough to look after herself for all this time, and you just amaze me. I can't tell you how many times I've caught myself just staring at you, just to marvel at you. Irene, you're absolutely everything to me and the fact that you've made the decision to marry me is the strangest thing I've ever heard -it actually seems comical." He looked up at her, scared that she wouldn't believe him.

Irene peeked up at him through her tear-dampened lashes, meeting his eyes. The one person she could recall that had ever truly loved her. Had ever seen anything real in her. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes, and she blinked them away, her voice thick. "I'd never want to marry anyone else...I love you..." She murmured, leaning forward to rest her forehead on his, suddenly craving even the smallest contact between them. "I'm sorry, darling...thank you...for so much..."  
"Don't apologise, sweetheart. It makes me feel a bit more manly that you've cried in the past 24 hours too," he laughed and closed his eyes, just enjoying the pressure of her head on his.   
"This is being in love," he murmured, "telling each other everything and just listening. I want every day of my life like this, Irene, with you. The wedding isn't going to come soon enough. Marry me right now, for God's sake. I'm going to love you until the day I die and I swear that." 

She laughed softly at his comment on manliness, somehow unable to stop the slow, silent tears to slide down her cheeks. They weren't tears of misery anymore. She whispered gently, her voice still trembling slightly, but her lips curved up into a slight smile. "Your love is all I could wish for, sweetheart. I've given you my heart, I only ask that you keep it." She placed her hands on his cheeks, lifting his face to press her lips to his in a slow, tender kiss, her tears gradually drying and disappearing.

Who ever would have thought that they could be so perfect? She changed him, and he knew this. He smiled more. He was happy. Warm, even. He wasn't the icy cold person he'd been before, pardon the pun, but she'd thawed him out.

He deepened the kiss, feeling the craving that she did, pulling her to her feet and keeping his hands on her backside. He didn't want sex, just intimacy. Just skin on skin.   
Right as he was about to dip and lift her bridal style his phone rang. He groaned against her lips, and thought about ignoring the call.  
Did he have to? This was the last few days before everything became wedding-centric and crazy and he just wanted to enjoy his fiancée. But the phone continued ringing, and he reluctantly broke away from her and picked up this phone, answering in what must have been a rather rude 'what?'.

Irene sighed in disappointment as his lips, and hands, disappeared, leaving her slightly breathless. She glared at the phone in his hand. She didn't want interruptions at the moment, she simply wanted to be alone with the man she loved. She couldn't hear who was on the phone, nor could she see his face, so she simply leaned back against one of the laboratory's work benches and waited.

"I understand. Thank you, Anthea," he said, and set his phone aside again. "Mycroft's on his way. I'll let you guess why," Sherlock sighed and planted a soft kiss on her forehead before clearing away the files and random piece of equipment littering the place before heading upstairs just as the crunching of his brother's car atop the gravel could be faintly heard in the distance. He went and stood at the front door, leaning against the door frame with a look on his eyes that could kill, waiting for Irene to join him. God, why couldn't Mycroft leave him be for five minutes?  
A soft hand was on his side and he turned to see her beside him, as annoyed yet curious as he was. His brother got out of the sleek car and said a quick word of hello to his brother, which was responded to with a "How's the diet going?" and then Mycroft asked Irene for a quick word in the study, alone. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and closed the front door, watching them disappear into the study and hearing her soft voice speak first.

Irene was surprised that the elder Holmes had asked for a word with her, she had assumed he was here to see Sherlock. She followed him into the study after a moment, saying nothing but throwing a questioning look at Sherlock before disappearing through the large wooden door. Mycroft was seated at the dark, varnished oak desk in the centre, as if she were the visitor and it was he that lived here. Which she supposed, in a sense, was true. She placed her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow at him. She knew Mycroft didn't trust her, not since she had ruined his little 'Flight of the Dead' the previous year. He wouldn't be friendly to her, she knew that.  
"Mr. Holmes. Lovely to see you, as always. You said you wanted to talk to me about something?" She said when he failed to speak, her voice stiff, but polite.

Sherlock noticed his brother had left his coat on the rack before going in to the study. He checked the pockets for any reasons he might be here. Nothing -except for a few cigarettes. He pocketed them and began pacing up and down outside the study, listening to the murmur of their voices, for any words he could pick out. But there were none. It was a solid oak door. He wouldn't hear much through it. Damn it.

"Miss Adler, you are an intelligent woman. I have no doubt that you have worked out my reasons for wanting to speak to you" Mycroft replied, his voice equally as artificially cordial as hers, his smile tight and false. Irene sat in the chair opposite him, her posture relaxed, hostility radiating between them.  
"Oh, I have, but I want to hear you say it" She replied, her tone smooth.  
Mycroft sighed, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his elbows on the table.

"I have been informed of your relationship with my younger brother, and have been recently made aware that you and he are soon planning to be...married..." Irene raised an eyebrow at him, not questioning how he managed to obtain that information. No doubt he had Mrs. Hudson's phone tapped in case there was any news from Sherlock.  
"As a matter of fact, we are. Have you come to offer your congratulations? How sweet" She said with a smirk.  
"Now, Miss Adler, you know quite well that is not why I am here" Mycroft replied, his voice now slightly stern.  
"Oh?" She feigned surprise. "Well then. Do tell, sweetheart"

"Obviously, given our...history, I cannot allow this 'wedding' between yourself and Sherlock to take place"  
Irene's eyebrows raised, her expression incredulous.  
"You can't /allow/ it? My dear, I'm afraid you don't actually have a say in the matter" She replied curtly.  
Mycroft sighed in a patronising manner, the kind of sigh one might hear from a parent when arguing with a petulant child.  
"You have manipulated both me and my brother in the past, toying with his emotions almost to the point of driving him into depression, and nearly causing my political affairs to fall into ruin" He said, his voice suddenly sharp.  
"Forgive me, but I'm quite unconvinced that this marriage of yours is based on the traditional mutual affection"  
He leaned forward, his voice now soft, threatening.  
"I will not allow you to toy with him again, Miss Adler. Whatever you want from him, be it money, contacts, resources, protection, a place to hide, I can provide it. A fake marriage is not the answer"  
Irene felt the blow of the word 'depression', but kept her composure externally. She always would regret lying to Sherlock, for the rest of her life she would. But at the time, she had no idea he reciprocated any feeling for her.

"I'm sorry, but as usual, you are quite mistaken, Mr. Holmes" She replied, her own voice slightly sharp. "Believe it or not, I'm marrying Sherlock for the old-fashioned reason, not for material wealth or protection as you suggested" The words were spat, as if they tasted foul. "Do you know what 'love' is, Ice Man? Because I highly doubt it. In which case, you wouldn't understand. But Sherlock and I are getting married, and I'm afraid you won't convince me to walk away, as that was clearly your intention" She stood, arms folded, expression icy cold. "I suggest that, if you have a problem with my relationship with Sherlock, you talk to him. In the mean time, I'm afraid I must call this meeting to an end. I do hope you can stay for the wedding, we would so love to have you there" The falsely sweet faux-manners had returned. She smiled politely at him, before turning on her heel and leaving the room, not waiting for him to speak.

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to look at her questioningly, raising an eyebrow as his brother almost stormed out of the room, lifting his coat and glaring at Sherlock when his cigarettes weren't there. "You're not stopping this, Mycroft. Stay for a few days if you'd like, and we'll prove to you that we love each other," he said, and Mycroft shook his head. "No, brother, I will stop this marriage, and I won't be staying." And with that, he put his coat on and left the house just as his car pulled up outside. 

As soon as the door closed, Sherlock moved over to Irene and hugged her tight. "Mycroft can go to hell," he murmured and kissed her forehead.

Her teeth were gritted, scowling in irritation as Mycroft left. However, she relaxed into Sherlock's embrace, leaning her head on his shoulder with a sigh.  
"He thinks I'm manipulating you..." She murmured, closing her eyes.  
"He accused me of...of pretending to love you to gain some money, or a place to hide, or whatever it was he said"  
Her arms wound around his neck, and she looked up at him sadly. "He won't give up on this, my love. He'll be doing everything in his power to stop our wedding from happening."


	17. Chapter 17

"Then we'll get married in secret. Today, tomorrow, in two weeks' time, I don't care. We can have a big reception party in the summer and then he'll have nothing to stop if we're already married. There's a small church down the road and seeing the state it's in, I daresay they'd marry us soon if we helped their church a little." Sherlock hated his brother with everything he had. Wasn't it obvious they were in love? For God's sake, she was wearing his mother's ring, and Mycroft should have known he wouldn't give that to anyone he didn't love.

She smiled, kissing his lips gently. "As long as I still get my white dress and bouquet, darling," she said with a grin as she pulled away. "That sounds perfect. We'll just wait until Mrs. Hudson gets here. Then we can be married," she promised. "I want nothing more than to marry you, Sherlock..."   
She sighed after a moment. "The day can't come soon enough."  
"I just can't wait until you're a Holmes, Irene. There's another secret room upstairs, well, there's a lot, but there's one you'll love. It's between the bathroom and a study. I'll not come up, since I'm not allowed to see your dress. If I remember correctly, there's at least a hundred dresses up there." He grinned and patted her backside. "Go on, love."

She raised her eyebrow in surprise. A room, with wedding dresses? Here? Presumably they were placed here for John's ex-fiancee to choose from, but at that moment, she didn't care. They hadn't been touched, and she would be choosing one for herself. For her wedding.  
With a smile, she headed upstairs to seek out this mysterious dressing room, vaguely wondering just how many secret rooms there were in this house, and if she would ever know them all.  
"You should really start exploring this house, love," he called after her, chuckling. He headed into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, watching the birds flock in the sky amidst the vivid green trees.  
After he was finished and was sure she was in the dress room, he headed upstairs and into his music room, clearing away the whiskey he'd spilled and sitting back down at his piano, making up a nice melody as he went along.

She found the dress room quite easily, pushing the wall until the stiff door swung open, flicking on the lights and stepping inside. The room was moderately sized, every wall concealed behind a rack of dozens and dozens of dress bags. Running her finger along the line of bags on one of the racks, her face broke into a wide smile. Hundreds of wedding dresses and nothing to do but try each and find her perfect one. This was her kind of afternoon.  
She wasted no time in opening various bags, inspecting every luxurious dress, in every wedding shade she could imagine, from stark white, to pale cream, to faint, pearly pink. Some had tremendous trains that flared out behind her, some barely brushed her ankles. She tried on dress after dress in the long, wide mirror at the end of the room, biting her lip as she smoothed down the waist of a pale cream dress with long, tight sleeves the hugged her hips before flaring in a mermaid-style skirt, down to the floor. Shaking her head, she discarded the dress, walking to a different rack in her lingerie, taking a deep breath before closing her eyes walking up and down before stopping at a random dress bag. She pulled it out, laying it on the flat-topped dresser in the centre of the room, unzipping it and pulling out the dress within.

Her eyes widened, instantly, but carefully pulling the dress on. It was made of pale, shimmering white satin and chiffon, sleeveless and tight at her torso, the material bunched at her waist, the artfully creased material on her sides glittering with minute, almost-invisible diamantes.  
There was a faint pattern on the material of the torso, barely visible unless one looked very close, of intricate, delicate swirls. After her waist, the material flowed down her body, clinging to her curves flatteringly, a thin, nearly transparent chiffon layer over the satin from the high, pale white ribbon belt. The train was not especially long, but rippled out behind her, the dress flowing like water down to the floor, swaying softly at the slightest movement.  
It fit to her body perfectly, catching the light, the material seeming to glow slightly, illuminating the air around it.  
This was it.  
Her dress.  
This was the dress she would wear when she met her Sherlock at the altar.

She turned to the four-sided dresser, for the first time opening one of the drawers. Shoes. Dozens of pairs of shoes. She opened another. Veils. Another. Jewellery. Drawers full of bridal accessories for her to explore. She grinned. She would be up here for hours, and she didn't mind in the slightest.

For the first time ever, he finished the four-hour long piece, wondering why he hadn't been interrupted. He briefly thought about going to find her, but decided against it. Girls took their time over these things. Sherlock, on the other hand, knew exactly what he'd wear. The classiest and only tux he owned. Tuxes were nice.

A short while later, shoes, jewellery, and other accessories chosen to match her dress and placed aside, she exited the room, pleased with her findings. Heading downstairs, she peeked into various rooms, searching for him, unable to find him.   
He must be in one of those mysterious hidden rooms I know so little about, she thought with a roll of her eyes.   
Turning to walk down to the west of the house, she headed to the only other hidden room she knew of, the music room he had been hiding in the previous evening. Pushing the door open, she found him sitting at the piano, sauntering up behind him and wrapping her arms loosely around him from behind, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his cheek.  
"Sorry I took so long, my love," she murmured softly into his ear. "I hope you weren't too bored without me."

"It wasn't too tedious," he said, shifting over on the seat to allow her to sit beside him. "Play with me?" Sherlock set the sheet music in front of them, taking the left side while she took the right.

Irene had learnt piano at a very young age, and it was a hobby that had survived through the years. She followed the unfamiliar piece with ease, one hand easily picking out the notes, the other lacing with his between them, a slight smile lingering on her lips. It was moments like this that made her so happy she had decided to return to him, to send that dinner invitation after so many months of silence. She squeezed his hand gently, the soft, lilting music filling the room.  
She played beautifully. Obviously violin was his speciality, and piano was clearly hers. He stopped playing, let her finish the final few notes and then leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Let's have dinner," he said, and then began laughing.

She finished the piece with a chord of trilling high notes, feeling Sherlock's breath in her ear. She burst into laughter his invitation, turning to grin at him, an amused eyebrow raised.  
"I would love to, sweetheart," she chuckled, nudging him playfully.

"There's a nice little restaurant in the village. Or if you'd prefer to stay in, I'm sure I could try my hand with a cookbook from the library." He put the sheet music away and closed the piano so it wouldn't get dusty, moving over to open the window slightly too. He took one of the violins to bring it downstairs, since it was annoying to have to trek upstairs each time he wanted to play.

"A little restaurant in the village...that sounds lovely, sweetheart," she said with a smile. It seemed so amusing to her now, after dozens of texts, so many unanswered requests, they were finally going out for dinner.  
She stood, smoothing down her dress, taking his free hand as they left the room. "I found a dress, by the way, my love," she said as they walked. "Hopefully you'll like it."

He led her out of the small room, stopping once to kiss her. "I'll love the dress no matter what, since you're going to be in it. But I imagine it's particularly beautiful all the same."  
She returned the kiss, caressing his cheek gently, smiling against his lips. "Ever the charmer..." She chuckled as they broke apart. "When do you want to leave for dinner, my love?" She enquired, walking with him down the stairs.  
"As soon as possible, it gets quite busy in the village around six, so if we leave now, we'll just miss it. Plus, the markets are still open so we could walk through there, if you want." He began imagining his love's dress. As a man, he'd never felt the need to explore that room, so Sherlock was quite literally clueless about what she could have picked. It would be perfect. She would have picked the perfect one.

"Sounds fabulous, darling. Give me five minutes to get ready and we can go" She pecked his cheek gently, turning to head to their bedroom, looking back over her shoulder. "No peeking in the dress room, now. I want you to be surprised" She winked at him before disappearing.  
Five minutes later, as promised, she returned in a deep, navy blue halter-neck dress of a light, flowing material that fell just above her knees. Her hair was loose down her back, with no clients to entertain, she had no reason to keep it tied. Her feet were encased in black, heeled sandals, and she wore a light amount of makeup, with a subtle amount of her favourite red lipstick. She took his hand, grinning up at him.  
"Ready to go, dear?"  
"Give me a moment to appreciate you," he said, closed his eyes and opened them a few seconds later. "Let's go," Sherlock chuckled and led her downstairs, grabbing a new Belstaff on his way and heading out the door. "We don't even need an alarm system, since we've got three farming families across the road that owe me favours..and they all have guns," he smirked as they walked down the pathway, Sherlock kicking the gravel back into the road. She laughed, swatting his arm jokingly as they left, plucking a thin black wrap from the cupboard by the front door as they left, draping it around her shoulders. They arrived at the marketplace quickly, and the atmosphere was alive with shopkeepers, children, families, and other villagers bustling around. The stalls had bright banners, selling all manner of breads, cheeses, wines, and fresh fruit, as well as jewellery, ornaments and other handmade items. It was amazingly picturesque. Irene had never seen the rural side of France before, she had always been preoccupied with the bright and busy cities.  
She kept a hand on Sherlock's arm as they wandered through, admiring the stalls, the general festive environment.  
He adored markets, always had.

Sherlock stopped at a small stall. It was very humbly decorated, and apparently unattended. On display were a number of good luck tokens: handcrafted cherubs and horseshoes. Odd little things like that interested him, but one piece caught his eye. It was a tiny ivory dove, not much bigger than his thumb, yet so intricately carved. He pointed it out to Irene. "They say seeing doves on one's wedding day means for a happy relationship," he told her. She saw a fabric stall and headed over to that, while Sherlock looked for the stall's owner. Eventually, a small brunette appeared behind the stall, gave him a beaming smile and told him the price of the dove. He paid, and she told him she'd throw in a little something extra for free. Sherlock, who was quite confused, thanked her and took the bag from her, moving over to Irene.   
He checked the contents of the bag. The dove, obviously, and an even smaller Venus. The symbol of fertility. He looked back to the woman to smile at her, but she was gone again.  
Irene was busy admiring several hand-woven crocheted scarves when Sherlock rejoined her. She noticed the small bag in his hand, placing the teal-coloured scarf she had been looking at back down atop the pile before turning towards him. "Did you buy something, my love?"

He took the dove out of the bag and showed her. "And then there's this," he said, taking the miniscule Venus from the bag. "The woman gave me it for free. Symbol of fertility," he murmured and then shrugged. "Strange, but welcome to France. Did you see anything you liked, sweetheart?"  
"That's so pretty..." She murmured, stroking the dove gently before her eyes fell on the second little sculpture. "Fertility...that's rather interesting. Perhaps she heard your comment about our wedding, sweetheart"  
The tiny Venus idol played on her mind for quite a while after that. Fertility.  
When would she be ready to embrace that herself? To come off the pill and let herself become a mother? As much as she wanted it, the idea was quite daunting. But this little statue had brought another worry to her mind. Would they be able to conceive a child? She had taken that pill so many times over the years for her business, would she still be able to carry a child? Suddenly, she was terrified. As afraid as she had been, she desperately wanted Sherlock's baby. And the more she thought about it, the more potential problems she could forsee that may stop her from conceiving at all.

He used a finger to trace underneath her eyes. "Stop worrying. Your eyes get darker when you worry. We're going to be fine. I'm not having children until you're one hundred percent ready, mentally and physically." Sherlock took her hand, and they walked through the narrow streets to a restaurant with empty tables outside. He walked in and was directed to a table, pulling out a chair for her and pushing it in after she sat down. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair, taking out one of Mycroft's cigarettes and lighting it. "Good God, there's nothing quite like a smoke," he said, exhaling. As usual, this was one of the restaurants that owed him a favour (they were rather useful) and so they allowed him to smoke. The place was empty anyway.  
She ordered some food and a nice chardonnay, he smoked. They made a good pair.

She sat back in her chair, sipping her wine, thinking about his words. He knew her remarkably well, and was so unconditionally supportive towards her. It was a wonder to her that he ever considered himself undeserving of a relationship. He was deserving of so much more than damaged little her. In the back of her mind, she prayed, fervently, that she might still be able to provide him with a child. A child for them to raise together. Strange, she didn't quite realise the extent to which she wanted this until it felt threatened.

The food arrived quickly, a rather delicious looking Confit de Canard, and she began to eat immediately. Savoring the dish, she watched him smoke, musing to herself that she had always noticed how sexy he looked with a cigarette.

"Eat up, my love," she said after a moment.

He stubbed out his cigarette and took a sip of water before taking small forkfuls of duck. It was quite delicious, but he had eaten his food for the day and was soon ridiculously full. That was the problem with rarely eating, he supposed, your stomach shrunk to such a size that when you did eat, you couldn't eat much. "Sorry," he said quietly, looking at his feet. He wasn't sure why he apologised, probably just a reflex from childhood.   
She finished her portion, and the plates were cleared away. "So, what would you like to talk about? There's a question in there, I can see it," he said, looking into Irene's eyes and observing everything.  
Irene found that she wasn't even surprised anymore. Sherlock could see her insecurity, he knew her far too well.  
She looked down, fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth, speaking hesitantly. "I was just wondering...what you think we should do if..." She took a deep breath. "If we couldn't have a child. I mean, if there was something...wrong...with me...if I'm too damaged" She murmured the last statement, not meeting his eyes.  
She knew he wanted a child. More than anything. What would he do if that option was taken away from them? Would he want a child elsewhere? Would he leave?  
The thought was unbearable.


End file.
